Lost Souls & Rabbit Holes
by nowforruin
Summary: When Ruby decides her latest project is getting a one-handed man back on his feet by making him a bartender at the Rabbit Hole, Emma isn't so sure it's a great idea. But as the days go on, there's just something about Killian Jones that makes her want to be found. AU. CaptainSwan, with appearances by Ruby, David, and Mary Margaret.
1. Chapter 1

"Did you at least let him down gently?" David Nolan's lips curl in the faintest hint of a smile, while Emma simply stares back at him in disbelief.

"Did I let him down _gently_? He proposed, David! He didn't ask me to move in or go to dinner with his parents or any of the normal next steps. He _proposed_!" Emma shakes her head, a jumble of blonde curls falling over the shoulders of her leather jacket. With a wince, she glances back down at her drink, tracing patterns in the moisture accumulating on the bar. "It was too much."

David sighs, slinging an arm around Emma's shoulder and giving her a brotherly pat on the back. "It'll work itself out, Emma. It doesn't have to be the end. You really like Walsh."

"I do, but I don't think we can come back from me walking out when he proposed."

"Sure you can!" Mary Margaret, ever the cheerful optimist, picks that moment to pipe in. She's David's wife, and Emma loves her like a sister, but in that moment, the last thing she wants to hear is the cheerful chirping of sunshine. She just wants to get drunk and forget she ever met Walsh.

David turns away, whispering a quiet word to his wife. He can read Emma – has been able to since they were kids. He's the reason she's even here, drowning her sorrows in a bar with friends instead of by herself in an apartment god knows where.

Emma's parents abandoned her as a baby, throwing her into the foster system. One thing led to another, until one day she found herself being taken in by David Nolan's mother. She turned fifteen the day after she moved in, and it was the first time in a long time Emma had even known what happiness could feel like.

At twenty-eight, it still hasn't been an easy road. But David is her family, and David understands, even if he won't voice it in the middle of the Rabbit Hole, that Emma needs some quiet right now.

She's always been terrible at relationships. David and his mother, and later, Mary Margaret, have been a family to her these last ten years and then some, but the earlier years….they left scars. Some physical. Some mental. Emma doesn't know how to trust people, how to open her heart up for the taking.

This isn't the first time one of her relationships has come to a crashing halt, but it's the first time someone's tried to make her a wife. She doesn't quite know what to do with that information, but she does know that tequila will at least make her thoughts quieter for a little while.

"Another drink, Blondie?" Ruby's standing in front of her with a handful of shot glasses and a bottle of tequila, a sympathetic expression on her face. She also happens to round out the number of people Emma can call a friend, and in spite of owning the Rabbit Hole and having a business to run, she's been hovering near Emma's spot at the bar all night, concern in her eyes.

She's also the only person on the planet who can get away with calling Emma _Blondie_ and live to tell the tale.

Emma just nods, gladly taking the offered shot and throwing it back. "It was bad, guys," she says as she sets the glass back down on the bar, burying her face in her hands. "I just froze. I mean, it's been six months. I like him. It was a good thing. And then he just…" She shrugs helplessly, staring back at her friends. "Maybe I should have said yes?"

There's a chorus of disagreement, even from Mary Margaret, who reaches over to take Emma's hand. "If you didn't want to marry him, Emma, you have the right to say so."

"Fuck him," Ruby tacks on, her painted lips spreading into a wide grin. "You didn't want to marry him, Em. Doesn't make you a bad person. Makes you normal. Not everyone turns out like these two." Ruby jerks her head in David and Mary Margaret's direction, sticking her finger down her throat in exaggerated disgust.

Emma can't help but laugh, grateful that even if her romantic life is in a constant state of DOA, her friends are still there. It's a small circle, but each of them is worth their weight in gold.

There's a crash at the other end of the bar, followed by a string of curses. Ruby sighs, turning toward the noise. "New guy," she says by way of explanation, throwing up her hands and beginning to walk away. "You – help yourself," she calls over her shoulder to Emma, pointing to the tequila bottle she's left sitting on the bar.

Emma nods, pouring herself another shot while glancing curiously down the bar. She hadn't known Ruby had hired anyone new, but then again, she's been a little preoccupied this evening with her own troubles. It's not exactly bright in the place, either, but Emma tries to get a glimpse of the guy anyway.

She can't make out much – a mop of unruly black hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His back is to her, his shoulders slumped as Ruby approaches. Emma's waiting for the fireworks – her friend doesn't have the best temper – but it never comes. She can't even make out the words, but it seems all Ruby has done is point him in the direction of a broom while replacing the drink he's dropped for the waiting customer.

"Must be another stray," David comments from her elbow, nodding down the bar to where Ruby is helping the guy clean up the mess. "You know she has a soft spot for the broken ones."

"Yeah, I suppose she does," Emma agrees, picking at a chipped nail and letting her eyes fall to the bar. "Pretty much explains how we became friends."

"Emma, you're not broken," Mary Margaret cuts in, her voice soft and mother-like.

Emma doesn't respond, just trades glances with David. It's different with him, and it's why she's called him family all these long years. He doesn't argue with Emma when she voices things like this, when she says out loud what she knows to be true – she is broken, deep down. And most days, it's okay, because she's managed to glue and duct tape herself back together enough to be normalish. But days like today, where the cracks start to show, she doesn't need someone to lie to her. She just needs someone to sit next to her while she gets drunk.

She forces a smile for Mary Margaret before pouring herself another shot. Emma is approaching drunk, but since that's been the goal of the evening, she's not really seeing a problem. It's late, but she's not working tomorrow, and neither is David.

Ruby returns, her brows furrowed. Emma nods down the bar where the newest bartender has vanished into the back. "Where did he come from?"

Ruby shrugs, swapping out Emma's empty beer glass for a fresh one, foam running down the side of the glass. "He needed a job. I needed a bartender."

Emma nods, turning her attention back to her friends. There's a story there – Emma can tell by the way Ruby's eyes shift back toward where the man's disappeared to every so often – but Ruby will tell it when she feels like it.

She's a tough woman, and she hides her heart well, but Emma's gotten to know what a softie Ruby can really be. The bar is her business, but it's also served as a sort of halfway house for the broken over the years. Her hiring choices tend toward those who need a little extra help putting themselves back together.

Most of those employees have come and gone, moving on to bigger and better things…or sliding back into the shadows from whence they came. The notable exception is Ruby's boyfriend, Victor. Once a med school drop out trying to drink himself into an early grave, a job at the Rabbit Hole (and Ruby's guidance) got him sober and back to medicine. He's a resident at the local hospital now, and she knows it tickles Ruby endlessly to introduce her doctor boyfriend.

Ruby knows more about the new bartender than she's willing to tell her friends, but it's part of why Emma values her friendship the way she does. Ruby isn't in the business of telling other people's secrets. If the man has a story to tell, Emma will hear it from his lips or not at all.

But Ruby's newest project is not her problem tonight. Putting the man out of her mind, Emma turns back to her friends and her mission to stop feeling all the feelings her evening with Walsh brought on.

David all but carries her out of the bar that night, and Emma knows she'll pay for it in the morning, but tonight, tonight it's worth it. She forgets about Walsh, forgets about the sweep of black hair at the end of the bar, she just _forgets_.

She's much too drunk to notice a pair of bright blue eyes following her out the door.

"She's a friend of yours?" he asks softly as Ruby leans back against the bar, concern marring her features.

"Yes."

"She'll be all right?"

Ruby turns to face him, surprise in her eyes. "Yeah, she's just had a bad night," she says after a beat, a flicker of emotion crossing her face.

"Seems she'll be having a bad morning to follow."

"Probably. David will set her up with some water and aspirin. I'll go check on her in the morning." Ruby smiles tightly, a protective rush making her cross her arms over her chest, like she can hold Emma tight even though the girl is halfway home by now. "You did all right tonight, Killian. A couple of broken glasses ain't half bad for your first night."

He smiles, but it's a bitter smile. "I still say you're a daft lass for hiring a man with one hand to tend your bar." He's massaging his left wrist as he says it, the prosthetic fingers unmoving as he pushes up his sleeve to knead the sore flesh.

"Shut up and go take out the trash." She says it with a smile, but she says it, because Ruby might take in strays, but she doesn't go easy on them. Feeling sorry for yourself is a limited time offer in the Rabbit Hole – even Emma only gets an occasional pass on having a pity party.

Killian walks away, gone to do her bidding as she wipes down the bar and cashes out the last few remaining patrons. It's been a long night. This isn't the first time Ruby has watched Emma self-destruct, but she hopes it's one of the last. Her friend can't keep doing this to herself, getting into relationships with men who want her to be something she isn't.

Ruby pauses, one hand still frozen on the bar, and glances back over her shoulder to where Killian is gathering up the trash. He'd asked after Emma with concern, but not judgment. The man didn't even know her name, but he worried for her – Ruby could see that much in his eyes.

Her lips curl in a small smile, resuming her cleaning.

It's good to have a plan.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm back! Hope you all enjoy this latest incarnation of Emma &amp; Killian.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Emma cracks her eyes open slowly, the banging on her door echoing through the apartment like gunshots. She wants to pull a pillow over her head, ignore the noise, but she knows from experience that's not going to solve the problem.

"You have a key!" she shouts at the door, her voice scratchy. The room spins as she lurches to her feet, nearly tripping over her hastily discarded jeans left lying on the floor next to the bed. The boots prove to be a trickier obstacle, but Emma catches herself on the doorframe with a groan.

"I know," Ruby greets her with false cheer when she finally manages to fling the door open. "I forgot it."

"Liar." Emma gives her friend the best glare she can muster, but Ruby is holding two cups of coffee and that's enough to shut Emma up. She grabs the paper cup thankfully, taking a tentative sip before gulping it down.

"And how're you feeling this morning?" Ruby is grinning, and Emma hates her a little for it. Her skull feels like it's going to crack into a million tiny pieces all over her living room floor, and her mouth has been replaced with wads of cotton, but Ruby's downright chipper.

"Like I could cheerfully murder you," Emma grumbles back, slurping down more of the coffee. She closes her eyes, which only makes the room spin more. "I might throw up on you instead."

"I'll pass." Ruby guides her to the couch, folding her legs beneath her as Emma slumps back into the cushions. "I don't suppose you've talked to Walsh."

Emma holds up her phone, the screen showing missed calls and messages from the night before. "He wants to talk. I don't."

"You might want to at least tell him that."

"I walked out when he proposed. I think it sends a message."

"There's that." Ruby puts a sympathetic hand on Emma's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You'll be okay?"

"Yeah." Emma sighs, bringing the coffee cup to her lips without opening her eyes. "I mean, I'm upset but I'm not? I'm more angry at him that anything. Who proposes after six months?" She scoffs into the coffee cup, her free hand curling into a fist. "I _liked_ him, Ruby, but I'm not wife material. I don't want a house with a picket fence and a dog and a bunch of kids."

"I know, honey." Roby smiles sympathetically, sipping her own coffee. "You don't have to be any of those things if you don't want to. We're not all Mary Margaret."

"Yeah." Emma gulps down the last of the coffee, gingerly leaning down to set the cup on the floor before sinking back into the cushions. "I think I knew it wasn't going to last. Walsh would get this look sometimes…like he just couldn't grasp what my _problem_ was. He was too nice to ever say anything, but…"

"He wanted to fix you," Ruby supplies, because people have tried to fix her, too. She lost her parents, was raised by her grandmother, and ran into plenty of sticky spots all on her own. It's made her tough, but it's also made her rough around the edges. Plenty of men have tried to smooth her out, get her to stop dying streaks of bright red through her hair or wear a little less makeup, but Ruby is who Ruby is, and she's not apologizing.

It's a lesson she's been trying to pass on to Emma, with mixed results.

"I guess."

"You don't need fixing, Emma." The vehemence in Ruby's voice is enough to get the blonde's attention, one bloodshot green eye cracking open to study her friend. "You find the right man, he won't try to fix you. He'll just _be_ with you, scars and all."

"Like Victor?"

Ruby smiles softly, nodding. "Yeah, a bit like Victor."

"He was a mess when you met him. You fixed him."

"Not really. We more sort of…you're not broken, Emma." Ruby changes direction midstream, fixing Emma with a pointed look. "I know you think you are, that what you've been through has somehow turned you into a damaged girl that no one has the patience for, but you're wrong. You're beautiful and you're strong. Someone will appreciate you just how you are. You just have to find that person and then let them."

Emma merely offers her friend a skeptical lift of her eyebrow and a sideways glance that very much makes her opinion on Ruby's advice clear. "You sound like Mary Margaret."

"I'm much more practical than Mary Margaret. I brought coffee. She would have brought hot chocolate."

"I _like_ hot chocolate."

"Yeah, but you _needed_ coffee." Ruby grins, patting her friend's leg. "Go take a shower and I'll buy you a greasy breakfast."

"Don't mention food to me. I'll puke on you."

"Yeah, yeah. Go. Shower. Grease. You'll thank me for it later."

Emma goes, begrudgingly, because she knows Ruby is right, and she really doesn't need to spend the day alone in her apartment with all her thoughts about Walsh and the failings on her part to be the sort of woman who deserved a romantic proposal.

He'd done it right, for that sort of thing. Candles and twinkle lights on the deck of his house overlooking the ocean, Emma's favorite foods and a good bottle of wine. He'd gotten down on one knee and said beautiful things, but Emma hadn't really heard any of it. Her heart was too busy racing the blood through her veins, a deafening cacophony followed by a gut reaction of how _wrong_ it all was.

Emma liked Walsh just fine, but she doesn't want to be his wife. That's what it comes down to. She likes her life, simple as it is.

She likes the small town she lives in on the Maine coast. She likes working at the police station, an operation of maybe a half dozen cops working under David. It's annoying once in a while that her surrogate big brother is her boss, but mostly it's nice to work with people she likes and mostly trusts. Her job mainly consists of speeding tickets and the occasional bar fight, and she likes it that way.

Walsh…she met Walsh when the state police sent him into town to look into rumors someone had been running drugs through town. It turned out to be only that – a rumor – but Walsh, he would never be happy as a small town cop. He wanted Emma to marry him, to move into his house further south and take a job with the state troopers – to do _real_ police work, he told her.

Emma spent enough time seeing the uglier side of life growing up that she's just fine writing parking tickets and doing traffic control for town events, thank you very much. She doesn't want to investigate drug rings or murders.

She spends the morning with Ruby, and thought she's loathe to admit it, breakfast does improve her mood considerably. A few more cups of coffee to go with the greasy eggs served up at Granny's, and Emma almost feels like her normal self.

Normal enough to start asking questions.

"So who's the new guy at the bar? I meant to ask you last night, but I was…distracted."

Ruby shrugs, fighting to keep from smiling. "His name is Killian."

"And?"

Ruby shrugs again. "And what? He's worked for one shift. Why so interested, Blondie? Looking to get over Walsh by getting under another man, hmm?"

Emma flushes to the roots of her hair, glaring back at Ruby. "No! You don't hire new people all that often. I'm just curious."

"He did ask about you."

Emma's eyes flicker with interest. "What did you tell him?"

"Not a whole lot. He was worried about you, what with David having to carry your ass out of the bar last night."

"So your newest employee thinks I'm a mess. Great," Emma grumbles, leaning back in the booth across from Ruby. "I suppose I'll have to stay away for awhile."

"He isn't the judgmental type."

"I thought you didn't know anything about him."

"He's a stray," Ruby says simply, spreading her fingers across the table. "He's our people, Emma."

"So he's broken, too."

"If that's the way you want to look at, yeah." Ruby sighs, throwing some cash on the table. It's her grandmother's diner, and the old woman won't take her money but Ruby leaves it on the table anyway. "Why don't you come in tonight and hang out? It's Sunday, bound to be slow. _You_ shouldn't be sitting in your apartment by yourself with all this Walsh stuff."

Emma hesitates, studying Ruby carefully. Her friend isn't lying, that much she can tell – this Killian had asked about her. It's too soon to even think about another man, her relationship's ruins still smoldering away.

"No tequila," Emma finally says by way of agreement, carding her fingers through her messy hair to push it back from her face.

"Sure," Ruby agrees, allowing herself to grin back at Emma cheerfully.

Emma returns home, and Ruby goes to open the bar. It's tempting to stay on the couch as the afternoon passes into evening, especially since Netflix keeps helpfully starting new episodes of the procedural drama she's been sucked into without her even having to touch the remote.

But Ruby is right. Watching TV in sweats is depressing, even by Emma's standards. Walsh has given up on texting and calling, and as far as Emma can tell, that means he's given up entirely. It's not like he bothered to come to her door, and he knows where she lives.

So it's really over. Emma expects to be more hurt, to feel more sad, but it's little more than a bump in the road. Her heart wasn't in it, and this is all the proof she needs to know she made the right decision by walking away.

It's approaching eight by the time Emma finally leaves the apartment. She doesn't even really want to go to the Rabbit Hole, but she told Ruby she would. She hasn't bothered to do much with herself, just jeans and boots and a leather jacket to ward off the chill in the air. Even if the new bartender is there, Emma isn't going to impress him or, as Ruby so tactfully put it, get under him.

She just needs a few hours of distraction.

The bar is quiet when she walks in, settling into her usual spot at the bar. Ruby is nowhere in sight, but her new bartender is. "Evening," he greets her, his voice low and smooth. His eyes are shockingly blue when she looks up, and suddenly Emma wonders if perhaps she should have tried to look just a little nicer.

He's got a hint of an accent, subtle coloring on the word, but his tone is friendly. "What'll you be having, lass?"

"Is Ruby here?" she blurts out, internally wincing at her rudeness.

If he's taken aback by her, he doesn't show it. He shakes his head slowly, gesturing around the nearly empty building. "Slow night. She said she had an errand to attend to and would be back to close up."

"An errand."

"Aye."

Emma resists the urge to groan, digging her nails into the wood of the bar. "She failed to tell me she had any errands tonight."

"So you'll be Emma, then?"

She lifts her head, eying him curiously. "Yes," she says slowly, wondering what the two of them have gotten to talking about while she was in a Netflix coma.

"Ah. I'm to deliver a message." He set down the glass of water he'd been drinking from, reaching for his pocket. Emma's eyes follow the motion, and that's when she notices it – the unnatural stiffness and sheen of his left hand.

"Here we are," he announces, holding out a crumpled piece of paper. Emma drops her eyes instantly, ashamed to have been caught staring. She focuses on the paper instead, Ruby's scrawl almost illegible.

_Talk to him. It will be good for you both_.

His manners are too good for him to say anything about her rudeness, but it's awkward, the silence. She crumples the note in her fist, a rush of anger at her friend making her face heat up. She doesn't need to get involved with this man, no matter what Ruby thinks. She came to the bar expecting to chat with her friend and eat too many peanuts, not make awkward conversation with Ruby's latest project.

"Will you be wanting a drink while you wait?" he finally asks, and she can hear the shame in his voice, shame _she's_ put there by staring at his hand.

"Just some water." Emma forces herself to look up, to look him in the eye. She's surprised by the depth of emotion she sees there for the split second he holds her gaze, but then he's moving to pour her a glass of ice water. He moves easily enough for a man with only the one hand, and she can't help but be curious about the injury.

He sets the glass down in front of her, the ice cubes clinking together. She mutters her thanks, but doesn't look up again and he turns away to help another customer.

This visit is shaping up to be exactly what Emma _doesn't_ need. She's offended him, dragged up memories of the past and whatever happened to his hand with her rudeness, and she's not even sure apologizing would do any good. He obviously doesn't want to talk about it.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, shooting Ruby a staccato babble of text messages expressing her opinion on the matter. No response is forthcoming.

So Emma watches him instead. He's careful to stay away from her, occupying himself with tasks at the other end of the bar. She starts to notice things, things she has no business noticing. His jeans skim over his body, fitted, but not too tight. His good hand sports a silver ring on the middle finger, some sort of intricate piece of metal work. His hair falls into his eyes constantly, but he only seems to notice it on occasion. He moves like a dancer and a fighter, agile on his feet, but light.

"I can feel you staring, lass." He appears suddenly in front of her, reaching for the pitcher to refill her water. "Might make the time faster for the both of us if you'd like to exchange words instead."

"I'm sorry," she says automatically. "I've had…a rough couple of days."

"So I see."

"Look, I don't even know your name. You've got no right to judge me," Emma snaps back, her hackles up almost instantly. She doesn't even know why she says it – she knows his name perfectly well.

"Name's Killian." He says it in a way that lets her know he doesn't believe her, but he's not going to call her on it. "You mistake my words. I merely recognize the look of a woman trying to escape for a bit. Shall I go knock him around a bit for you?"

"Who?"

"Whatever man put that look on your face last night," he says softly.

Emma holds his gaze for a long moment, unsure of what to say. He's serious, she can tell by the almost dangerous look in his eyes, a flash of anger that would frighten her if she wasn't positive this man would never hurt her. She can't explain it, but it's something like when she met David, and she just _knew_ there was something different.

Only, she's never once caught herself staring at David's ass in a pair of jeans.

Finally, she sighs. "I think I've done enough on my own. He proposed. It was very romantic, candles, Christmas lights, the works. I just walked out."

Killian raises an eyebrow at her. "Not a word for the lad?"

"Not a one." She smiles wryly, her eyes lingering on the liquor bottles behind him. "Still want to go knock him around?"

"Would it cheer you if I did?"

"Not really."

"Perhaps not worth the jail time then, love." He says it lightly, but he's smiling, and there's something in his expression, a softness that comes out when he's smiling, that curls in Emma's belly. "Still, offer stands."

"That's very generous of you."

"Gentleman's honor." He flashes her another grin, and Emma can't help but smile back. They fall into easy conversation, if it can be called that. He says the most ridiculous things, but Emma is pretty sure he's doing it for her benefit. He flirts with her, but in an over-the-top manner such that she's pretty sure he doesn't have any real interest in her – he's just trying to make her feel better.

Emma doesn't care. Tonight, it's exactly what she needs.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ruby says you've been spending a lot of time at the bar lately," David comments as they sit in the patrol car several weeks later. They're supposed to be looking for speeders and writing tickets, but it's a quiet day. Mostly, they're drinking coffee and trading town gossip.

At least, they had been.

"Mmm…" Emma takes another sip of her coffee, shrugging it off. "Just trying to stay busy."

"With Killian Jones?"

"We're just friends, if you can even call it that. Put the big brother glower away." Emma rolls her eyes before giving David her best irritated glare. "Seriously, I go down there to spend time with Ruby. He's there. We talk, sometimes."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"Since when do you not want to tell me…"

"No, David, really. We talk about nothing." Emma shrugs again, turning to stare out the window. "It's why I like talking to him. We talk about the weather. He likes storms. We talk about some of Ruby's regulars when they're not around. We talk about why salted peanuts are better than unsalted. _Nothing_."

David mutters something under his breath Emma doesn't bother trying to decipher. She changes the subject, asking after Mary Margaret and their attempts at starting a family, which haven't been going so well.

Predictably, it's a topic on which David has plenty to say. Emma makes the appropriate responses, but they've had this conversation before, and she zones in and out.

Her thoughts drift to Killian. She supposes they're friends, in a fashion. They don't hang out outside the bar, but she does spend a fair amount of time chatting with him even when Ruby is around. He makes her laugh. He flirts with her, calls her _love_ in that delightful accent of his. He makes her feel pretty and desirable, all without actually making a move on her.

It's _easy_. She doesn't have to put a pretty spin on her glue and tape for him. It's obvious he's a bit of a mess himself, so he's in no position to judge her.

They don't talk about his hand or his past. They don't talk about how she ended up with the Nolans or why Ruby sometimes hovers with concern. They certainly don't talk about whatever it was that landed him a spot of Ruby's list of strays.

"Emma."

"Huh?" She realizes too late she's been lost in her own thoughts for too long, because David is looking at her with a mixture of indulgence and irritation.

"Feel like telling me about it?"

"About what?"

"Whatever it is that's got you so lost in thought I said your name five times before you realized I was talking to you."

"Oh. It's nothing in particular," Emma lies, reaching for her coffee cup again to keep her hands busy. "I'm just tired, spaced out."

"Well, let's call it a day with this. We can go back to the station." Emma nods her agreement, offering a hint of a smile as David pats her leg absently.

But when they get there, she wishes they hadn't. Walsh is waiting by her desk, a small box in his arms. "Hello," he greets her, his tone cool. David's at her back, and he's close enough she can feel the tension radiating off him instantly.

"Hi." It's all she's got to say, because she wants to ask him just what in the _hell_ he's doing showing up at her job, but she figures she's lost the right to shout at him.

"I wanted to return your things to you," he explains, gesturing to the small box. She's surprised he's bothered – there's a handful of clothing items and a toothbrush in the box. Emma wasn't one to leave her things all over his house, and she'd already written off the items as a casualty of the relationship.

"You could have mailed it. You didn't have to drive up here," she replies, wincing at the coldness of it. It's what she did with the one sweatshirt of his left in her apartment. She suspects it was the arrival of said package that prompted his decision.

"You mean I could have just left you alone. So we didn't have to talk about it."

"Walsh, lower your voice." Emma's eyes dart around the small office. It's quiet, and there aren't a lot of people present, but she doesn't need the ones there to know the details of her breakup. David knows, but she just told the rest of them it didn't work out.

"Why? Do you not want people to know what you did?"

"You should leave." David pushes his way in front of Emma, and a part of her is pissed, because she can fight her own battles, but it's nice to know he's always got her back.

"Sure, I'll go. Just tell me one thing, Emma. How do you live with yourself when a man asked you to marry him and all you did was walk away? I mean, really, Emma, I want to know. You _mailed_ my things back to me after I asked you to _marry_ me!"

Emma closes her eyes, fighting for calm, because now it's out. Someone in the office will tell their brother or sister or wife or husband, and before the week is out, the entire town is going to know that Emma Swan is the sort of woman to walk out on a man on his knees.

"Time to go." David's voice leaves no room for argument. Walsh opens his mouth to try it anyway, but David grabs his elbow and marches him out.

Emma is too stunned to move at first. No one will look at her, all of them pretending to not have just witnessed the scene they did. But the humiliation is just too much to take. She snatches the box from her desk, turning for the parking lot. She needs to go home, be alone for awhile.

David is walking back in the front door as she's heading for the back, and he jogs over to catch up with her. "He won't be coming back."

"Thanks."

"Hey…" He reaches for her arm, tugging her back to face him. He's gentle, and if Emma wanted to shake him off, she could, but she doesn't. She just stares up at him helplessly, the tears welling in her eyes.

"I'm a terrible person, David. I deserve it."

"No, you don't." He folds her into a hug, holding her against his chest protectively. "You deserve someone who makes you happy, and you deserve to walk away when it's not right. Besides, that guy's got a huge stick up his ass."

"David!"

"He does." He releases her, pushing the hair out of her eyes and dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. "Go home, Em. I'll stop by later. We'll get some takeout, watch shitty movies?"

"I think I'm going to go hang with Ruby." The implication is there – she's going to go down to the Rabbit Hole to talk to Ruby while drinking her weight in tequila. It's how Emma deals, for better or worse.

He furrows his brow with concern, but lets her go. "Just be careful. Don't want to make a habit of it."

Emma rolls her eyes, waving him off as she makes her way back to her car. It's a short drive home, but the box sitting on her passenger seat is all but shouting accusations at her.

"Whatever," she mumbles to herself, shoving the box into a closet in her apartment and slamming the door shut. She unclips her gun from her belt, locks it in the safe, and turns for the door. She can't be alone in the apartment with her thoughts, with Walsh's stupid box of accusations.

Ruby, as her shitty luck would have it, is not at the bar, but Killian is. Emma barrels through the door like a hurricane, all blonde hair and emotion. She throws herself onto a stool and levels Killian with a glare.

"Tequila."

"A fine day to you, too, Swan."

"Not in the mood. Tequila."

He fetches the bottle and a shot glass, pouring her the shot but holding the bottle back. She rolls her eyes at him, gulping down the liquor and holding out the empty glass. "Refill."

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me what this is all about?"

"Perhaps _not_," she mimics his accent (badly) and shakes the glass in his direction. "Tequila."

"Ruby should be back shortly. Perhaps…" He winces, catching himself. "Ruby will be back soon."

"Great. _Tequila_."

Killian meets her glare head on, the bottle stubbornly held out of her reach. "Lass, I think…"

"You know I have no problem just hopping the bar, right?" Emma interrupts, drumming her fingers against the bar top. "I'm not in the mood, Jones. I mean it."

He hesitates for another moment, but sets the bottle down beside her at last. A glass of water soon follows, and he watches her, a frown gradually deepening as she pours shot after shot.

"Slow down."

"Why?"

"This is a mite bit difficult to watch, love."

"So don't watch," Emma snaps back defiantly, the liquor working its way through her system. Her throat burns with it, and she can feel it in her belly, hot and radiating out through her veins. She points to the other end of the bar, shooing him like a misbehaved dog. "I didn't ask you to stand there judging me. Go away."

"You might feel better if you tell me the trouble instead of trying to drown it."

"Why do you even care? It's not like we're friends. You work for Ruby. _Ruby_ is my friend." Emma spits the words out before she can stop herself, desperate to make him leave her alone to deal with this the best way she knows how. She can't handle his concern, his bottomless blue eyes on her. This isn't a conversation about peanuts or the weather or weird regulars. He's trying to _talk_ and she just _can't_.

"Suit yourself." He walks away, finally, and Emma pretends she doesn't notice the obvious hurt in his voice, the coldness creeping in.

Ruby appears not long after, her eyes passing between the two of them in confusion. The air is thick with tension, and Emma is still pouring herself tequila like the end of the world is upon them.

"What happened?" she asks Emma, eyeing the rapidly emptying tequila bottle and the untouched water glass. "I thought you swore off this sort of binging after the last time."

"Walsh showed up at the station." Emma grits her teeth against the tears she doesn't want to waste on the man. "Basically shouted what happened to the entire office. You know it's going to get all around town."

"Maybe you shouldn't be sitting here drowning yourself in tequila, in that case."

"Seriously? You're kicking me out?" Emma's having a hard time focusing on Ruby, and she wobbles on the stool. "I'm your best friend. You can't kick me out."

"_Because_ I'm your best friend, I'm kicking you out. Seriously, Emma. Go home. Drink some water. I'll have Killian drive you."

"No way!" Emma protests, shooting her friend a pleading look. "You take me."

"His shift is almost over. He's been here all day. I can't ask him to stay here while I take you home. You guys are friends, right? I'm sure he's happy to do it." Ruby ignores Emma's protests, shouting down the bar to get the man in question's attention.

"Could you take Emma home, please?" she asks him sweetly.

He nods, but doesn't say anything, just holds his hand out for Emma's keys. She wants to fight, to insist she'll just walk, but it's far and she's drunk. So she fishes the keys out of her pocket and slides off the barstool, grabbing the bar to keep from toppling.

She's barely been in the bar an hour, but she's had _a lot_ of tequila.

She stumbles again halfway to the door. Killian wraps his arm around her waist without missing a beat, propping her up. It's too easy to lean against him, to breathe in the scent of sweat and beer and _Killian_.

She ignores the way he tenses the second she does it.

"You don't have to stay," she tells him as he walks her to the apartment door after a tense, silent ride. He's not holding her up anymore, but she can see him hovering, his arm halfway to her just in case. "I'm a big girl. I'll be fine."

"You should throw up," he says matter-of-factly, following her into the apartment. "Likely a good amount of that tequila is still in your stomach. It'll be a better evening for you if you get it out. Morning too, likely."

Emma stares stupidly at him, the words only half processed. "You want me to…make myself throw up?"

"Have you got a better idea for getting a bloody ridiculous amount of tequila out of your stomach without a trip to the hospital?"

"I didn't drink that…."

He's angry, she can see that now, but her mind won't quite catch up with her and his harsh words catch her off guard. "You drank nearly half the bottle in under an hour and I bloody watched you do it. You're a wee thing to begin with. Have you had much to eat today? Some coffee, perhaps? Anything else?"

"You're not…"

"Aye, I'm aware, I'm _not_. I'm not your friend. I'm not anything but your friend's barkeep. You've been quite clear. All the same, I'll be staying until it's clear you won't have killed yourself." He smirks at her, but there's a tinge of malice to the expression. "Not like you're in the position to do much about it, should you disagree."

"Fine," Emma snaps, heading for the bathroom. Perhaps he has a point. She is beginning to feel a bit queasy. But hell if she'll be telling him that.

"Fine!" His voice follows her, frustration and anger all mixed up in one harsh word.

When she wakes up in the morning, he's long gone.


	4. Chapter 4

She really needs to stop making a habit of this.

Emma's regrets are many as the sun rises. She's been up for hours, unable to sleep after passing out following her bar adventure. The coffee has been helping the fog clear, but mostly, it's her regrets making her head hurt.

She was mean to Killian – _really_ mean. She doesn't even know why she did it, why she _always_ does this. She's the original stray; David told her when they first met she was mean as an alley cat.

A lot has changed since, but Emma supposes some of those traits have stuck around. She's slow to trust, and when people get too close, her reaction is to lash out and drive them back.

She still retreats back into herself to lick her wounds.

Walsh showing up was not something she'd planned for, ever. It's been weeks since she walked out on him, so she figured that since he'd stopped calling and texting, that was the end of it.

She underestimated him, apparently.

It's doubtful he'll return now, having said his piece and humiliated her in front of her coworkers. He hasn't got a reason to. His things have been returned. Her things have been returned. He clearly doesn't want anything to do with her anymore.

It's likely to be a growing list.

Emma doesn't remember everything from her time at the Rabbit Hole yesterday, and she remembers less about Killian being in her apartment, but what she does remember is enough.

_I'm not your friend. I'm not anything but your friend's barkeep. You've been quite clear._

A lot of it is hazy, but she can still see the icy anger in his blue eyes. And the concern, the way he looked at her when she came into the bar a tangle of rage and humiliation.

What amazes her is that in spite of his obvious anger (and hurt, she has to admit that to herself, she's _hurt_ him) he never once looked at her with judgment. In fact, it was almost like he _understood_.

The person who won't understand is David. She loves him, and he's been a great friend to her, but he's not built like her. David isn't the sort to get drunk because something bad happened – he just goes home and talks it out with Mary Margaret.

He's family, but he doesn't get it. He never really will, and honestly, that's how Emma wants it. The crucible that made her isn't a path she'd wish on anyone.

What Emma doesn't want to admit is that there's a good chance that of all the people in her life, Killian Jones probably gets it just fine. He's got the same skittish look about him she's seen looking back at her. He's charming and over the top, but it doesn't change that when they talk, they talk about _nothing_. His defense is a bit more personable than Emma's claws, but it's a defense all the same.

It's about keeping people at arm's length.

She'll have to apologize for her behavior. He _is_ her friend. At least, she's thinking she wants him to be. Maybe – just once in a while – they could talk about something other than nothing. Maybe the next time something goes tragically wrong in Emma's life, instead of trying to drown herself in tequila, she can sip a beer and tell him about it.

It's an alien thought. She's told David a great number of her secrets over the years, but it's always taken her time to get them out. He's usually pried them out of her, in fact. She lived with him for years without telling him the full extent of the horrors of her past. There's still things he doesn't know, things he'll never know.

Emma waits for the sun to fully rise and then heads to work. She's brushed her teeth twice but she's pretty sure she still smells like a bar and tries to avoid speaking. David leaves her be with little more than a raised eyebrow. She does paperwork all day, tedious work that makes her eyes hurt but lets her spend the day at her desk.

She slips out at the end of her shift without saying goodbye to anyone. The conversation with David is one she knows she'll be having, but she doesn't have the energy for it tonight.

Tonight is for apologizing, and if there's anything Emma is miserable at, apologizing is near the top of the list. She doesn't need a lecture from David to add to her anxiety.

She heads for the Rabbit Hole, fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. Idly, she wonders if this is how criminals feel returning to the scene of the crime, sweaty palms and unruly stomach.

Probably not.

Ruby greets her as she walks in, her voice carefully neutral. Emma is relieved. It means she won't ask – her tone of voice is enough to suggest she'll listen if Emma wants to talk, but if not, that's fine too.

Sliding onto a stool, she peers around the bar looking for Killian, but he's nowhere in sight. Ruby shakes her head when Emma's eyes land back on her, a furrow between her brows. "He's gone for the night."

"I wasn't…"

"You were." Emma shrugs helplessly, unable to find the appropriate words to explain herself. It's one thing to apologize to Killian, but she _really_ doesn't want to explain to Ruby.

_I'm not your friend. You've been quite clear._

"He was in quite the mood today," Ruby continues when it becomes clear Emma isn't going to elaborate. "Lots of swearing and glaring at inanimate objects like they'd offended him. Left with some trashy girl about an hour ago. Something about _exorcising_ demons."

Emma flinches, a wave of jealousy catching her off guard. She can practically hear him say it, see the lascivious grin. "I don't see what that has to do with me," she lies, eyes focused on the rack of liquor.

"That's what you're going with?" Ruby's got one eyebrow cocked, her expression saying it all. She knows Emma is full of shit. But she's a good enough friend that if Emma wants to pretend, she'll allow it – for now.

"Yes."

"Did you come to clean out my tequila again?"

"No." Emma's stomach flips at the thought, but without Killian around to apologize to, she realizes she's out of reasons for being in the bar. "I came to see you," she says brightly, turning her attention back to Ruby.

"How very sweet of you, Blondie." Ruby's sarcasm is noted, but it's the last of it. Emma tells her about Walsh, about her day in the aftermath. They gossip about mutual acquaintances, and Emma drinks a liter of water and absolutely no tequila.

It's late by the time she's walking into her apartment building, but she feels almost good. She'll sleep tonight, maybe. Her behavior with Killian is still bothering her. She almost wishes she'd told Ruby about it, just to have someone to listen to her think out loud, maybe make sure her apology isn't completely half-assed. She hates the thought that she's hurt him, that his behavior today may be her fault.

But none of that compares to how much she hates the thought of him out with some _trashy_ girl. Emma's been telling herself all night that she doesn't care, that it's his business who he goes out with. They're on rocky ground when it comes to even being friends, never mind anything else. She has no right to have _any_ feelings about him going home with a woman, no matter what sort of woman she is.

She's just about convinced herself that's the truth of the matter as she walks up to her door, but there's an unexpected visitor lounging in the hall.

A very drunk one, it seems.

"Come to repay the favor of last night's revelry, darling." Killian's head lolls back against the door as he grins up at her, eyes bloodshot. "Afraid tequila isn't for me, being a rum sort of fellow. Though you're welcome to a nip, should the fancy strike you." His accent is thicker, more pronounced through the slur of the words. He fumbles with the pocket of his leather jacket, presenting her with a scratched and dented flask. When she doesn't immediately take it, he shrugs and takes a swig off it himself.

"Ruby said you had…Ruby said you'd left with someone." Emma won't call it a date, especially since he's somehow gone from a trashy woman to drunk on her doorstep in the span of the evening.

"Aye, I did." There's a sudden rush of movement as he gets to his feet, leaning back against the door heavily. He's still wearing the clothes he wore to the bar, jeans and a black button up shirt, scuffed boots. His eyes lock on her face, a flash of anger flaring. "I found myself too _distracted_ to enjoy myself properly."

"So…rum?" Emma doesn't really want to continue having this conversation in the hallway, but she isn't sure inviting him in is the right solution either. Then again, he won't be driving himself home anytime soon. "Hold that thought," she interrupts as he starts to answer, jingling her keys. "Come in. I'll make you some coffee."

"Inviting me in two nights in a row, Swan? How daring." He's taunting her, but he follows her lead, stumbling through the door and landing on her couch in an inelegant flop.

"I didn't exactly invite you in last night." She's supposed to be apologizing, but the words just slip out. Her plan involved a sober, calm Killian. This drunk, emotional Killian, well, she's not quite prepared for him.

"No, I suppose not." He takes another swig from the flask, his eyes following her as she takes off her jacket and kicks off her boots. They've darkened with anger, his lips twisting into a scowl. "Yet here I am, Swan. Here I bloody am."

Emma turns from her spot at the counter, bracing her palms behind her and leaning back while the coffee pot does its job. Her apartment is small, and she's got a clear line of sight to his sprawled form. He's rubbing his left wrist again, grimacing.

"Does it…" He looks up at her suddenly, a warning in his gaze, but she plows on. "Does it hurt? The brace? You can take it off."

"The bloody _hand_ hurts, Swan. It's not there, but it hurts like the devil all the same." With another scowl, and another swig of rum, he leans back, left arm hanging limply at his side. "I don't require your pity."

"I wasn't pitying you." The accusation gets her hackles up, and Emma can't help but fire back. "You seemed like you were in pain. I wanted to help. Apparently that's a problem for you."

He doesn't respond, and Emma turns away, the very sight of him pushing her buttons. She doesn't know why this man gets under her skin the way he does, but it's unsettling. She wishes he would just disappear from her living room, but she can't kick him out, not like this.

Besides, there's that whole apology business to take care of.

The coffee finishes, and she takes her time pouring. She's not a sugar and cream sort of girl, and for tonight, neither is Killian – whether he likes it or not. "Here," is all she says when she brings it over, holding the mug out to him with thinly veiled hostility.

His eyes hold hers captive for just a few seconds too long, a challenge in them. But he backs down, takes the mug and mumbles something under his breath. Emma ignores him, tucking herself into an armchair and sipping at her own coffee. She flips on the TV, the Weather Channel's local forecast playing with some bad elevator music.

"This is your entertainment?" Killian snorts into his coffee, taking another sip while shaking his head at her.

"It's the same everywhere," she says softly, the words slipping out without her permission. He freezes when he hears them, and she wishes she could stuff them back in, this little fragment of herself that's escaped. But she can't, so she stares at the TV and watches the blue bar scroll across the bottom of the screen.

"How many?" he asks, voice low. The question is nearly a growl, and she turns back to him in surprise.

"How many what?"

"You know." He nods toward the TV, the elevator music and the computerized voice announcing the weekend forecast.

Emma hesitates, unable to look away from him. There's something about his voice, something about his expression, that makes her think he can see all of her secrets, no matter how well she thinks she's hiding them.

He's been there before, this place she finds herself sometimes, late in the evening hours when it's just a little too quiet.

"I don't know. I lost count. Then there were the group homes." She shrugs, trying to maintain an air of casual disinterest in her own past so the subject will die. "I moved in with David and his mom when I was in high school. Problem solved."

"Just like that, 'ay?"

"Just like that."

He doesn't reply at first, doing that thing he does where he just stares at her, like if he somehow looks long enough, she might crack open her chest of secrets and spill them out. (He might be right.)

"Listen, it's been a long day. I need to get some sleep. I'll grab you a pillow and a blanket and you can crash here tonight. I'll give you a ride home in the morning." She'll apologize in the morning, too. When it's not the middle of the night in her apartment, and he's drunk and she's _telling_ him things.

"Not necessary." He starts to get to his feet, but fails at his first attempt. Emma sighs, stepping close enough to put her hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm through his shirt, hot almost, and she resists the urge to snatch her hand back instantly.

"You're drunk. It's cold. I owe you." She lists off the reasons like a grocery list, her hand pushing down enough to keep him sitting where he is. "Please."

She can't explain it, because there's a very big part of her that wishes he would leave, leave her apartment, leave town. But that's not the part that's winning tonight. Tonight, something buried deep inside, something warm and soft, is struggling to get out, to try to comfort him in his obvious dark place. She doesn't have much to offer, but a blanket and a pillow is better than nothing.

"Aye," he finally agrees, his eyes sliding closed. He sounds defeated, like he's lost a much bigger battle.

Emma hurries out of the room, collecting up a pillow and bedding. It's a process, getting him off the couch long enough for her to make it up for him, but she feels considerably better once he's settled under a quilt and kicking off his boots. The liquor seems to finally be catching up to him, and though he's mumbling, she can't make out a word.

"Goodnight," she whispers, turning for her bedroom. It's only when the door closes behind her that she lets out a rush of air, her eyes squeezed shut as she wonders what the hell she's gotten herself into.

* * *

><p>AN: Tonight's chapter brought to you by the impending "history-making" blizzard heading for New England. We'll see how that goes, since so far it's not doing much. For anyone else in the area - be careful! Stay home and read fic.<p>

:)


	5. Chapter 5

Emma is a light sleeper, but the first time she hears it, groping for consciousness, she assumes it's her imagination.

The second time, the hoarse shout sends chills down her spine, and her eyes snap open. She lays in the darkness of her bedroom, ears straightening, listening for it, just to make sure.

She can't make out the words, slurred and jumbled as they are, but she's positive when she hears it again that Killian is shouting like he's in pain. He sounds terrified, and she scrambles out of bed to go check on him.

He's thrashing about on the couch, his legs tangled tightly in the quilt she left him. Emma realizes he's asleep as soon as she sees him, a nightmare bringing on all of this. Trying to avoid his erratic limbs, she reaches out to shake him awake.

"Milah!" His voice breaks, like he's been crying or is trying desperately not to. Emma can't take it anymore, the pain in his voice, the feeling like she is intruding on deeply personal secrets. It isn't the first name he's cried out, and these aren't people he's ever mentioned to her. She grabs his shoulder with both hands, giving him a good shake.

"Killian, wake up," she says loudly, her grip tightening on his shoulder. "Killian!"

He sits bolt upright as he comes to, eyes wild. Emma didn't bother turning on a lamp, but there's enough light from the street to let her see him clearly. He's staring at her with utter confusion (and blistering, raw pain) for several long moments before his expression clears.

"Apologies for waking you, lass." His voice is still rough, and his hair is sticking out every which way. She can see it happen, the careful wiping of emotion from his features as he composes himself. He brings his hand to his face, scrubbing his eyes wearily. "You can go back to bed. It's passed."

Emma hesitates, perched on the edge of the couch as she is. She should walk away, go back to her bedroom and crawl back into her bed, but there's something about the haunted expression lingering in his eyes that keeps her right where she is.

"Nightmare?"

She can see the walls going up, the last of the bricks being carefully mortared in, and it's almost enough to make her give up right then and there. But something shifts, and he softens, ever so slightly. "Aye, bloody nuisance that it is."

"Have them a lot?"

He shrugs, propping his shoulder against the back of the couch and meeting her gaze. "Not so much as I used to, I suppose."

There are so many questions she wants to ask, but Emma isn't really sure where the line exists between his privacy and her curiosity. Even if they're friends, in a tentative sort of way, she isn't sure she's allowed to ask any of the questions swirling around in her mind.

Why does he sleep with the brace on? Is he doing it solely for her benefit? Because she finds that completely unnecessary and wishes he would make himself comfortable.

Who's Milah? Or Liam? Why was he shouting their names in such a manner, like a part of his soul was splintering away?

But she doesn't ask either of those things. She shivers in the coldness of the living room, her thin sleep pants and tank top no match for the chill in the deep of night.

"Back to bed with you. No need to freeze on my account."

"Come with me," she blurts out, surprising even herself with the offer. She blushes furiously in the darkness, glad he can't see it. "I mean…"

"No need to explain yourself, lass. Women have been offering me up a place in their beds nearly my whole life." He offers up a cheeky grin, but Emma notices he isn't moving a muscle to take her up on the offer. He's teasing her, just like he's always flirted with her.

He doesn't _mean_ it.

"I didn't mean, it's just…I hav-had nightmares, too. When we were growing up, David would let me sleep in his bed. It…helped. Having someone there. I could stay out here, with you, if you rather…" She trails off, completely unsure of herself. Why did she even ask him such a foolish question? Hours ago he was drunk and angry with her, and now she's inviting him into her bed because he's had a nightmare.

She really needs to get more sleep.

"You and David shared a bed when you were young?" Killian quirks an eyebrow at her, the questions all over his face.

"It wasn't like that. He's basically my brother. I've never…no. Absolutely not," Emma says emphatically, resisting the urge to become defensive. Other people usually don't get it, her relationship with David. It's hard to make people understand that when she met him, the furthest thing from her mind was a romantic entanglement. She's just never seen David like that. He's _family_.

"I see. You needn't trouble yourself, love. I've sobered up and should be going home. Apologies for the earlier outburst."

"You…don't have to. You can stay, I mean. It's the middle of the night."

He's quiet, different emotions flickering across his features. Confusion gives way to softer, almost wistful eyes. "You've a big heart, Swan."

It's a shock to hear it, especially after her recent behavior, and he catches her off guard with his statement. He leans forward, and Emma thinks, just for a second, that he's going to kiss her. She doesn't move out of the way, sitting frozen by his side, unable to decide in that split second what exactly she wants.

He does kiss her, but it's a gentle brushing of his lips against her forehead and nothing more. Then he's sliding his legs off the couch, tugging on his boots and getting to his feet.

"Back to bed, love. The morning will be here before you know it." He smiles, but it's a sad smile she hasn't seen on him before. She doesn't like it, this smile that's closer to tears than happiness. "I thank you for the hospitality."

"Anytime," is all she can come up with. He hesitates for another moment, the blueness of his eyes shining in the darkness, but then he turns for the door.

"Goodnight, Emma." His voice floats through the living room after him, the gentle thud of the door closing cutting off the sound.

Emma sits where she is, motionless, starting at the door, still feeling the brush of his lips against her skin. She has no concept of how much time has passed when she finally shakes herself out of it, crossing the apartment to lock the door behind him.

She leans back against the door, her heart unexpectedly heavy. She _wanted_ him to stay, to curl up with her in her bed and let her soothe him.

But she knows by the force of her heart slamming against her ribs, this is nothing like it was with David. This might be about comfort, but it's also about wanting to have his body pressed to hers, his warm skin under her cheek.

She _wanted_ him to kiss her.

She replays the feel of his lips, soft and supple against her skin, until she drops back into a restless sleep filled with flashes of blue and sad smiles.

* * *

><p>So now that Emma has figured out what she wants, what do y'all suppose she's going to do about it?<p>

In other news, the storm dumped off about 2 feet of snow at my house and it seems to be coming down again, but we didn't lose power and I've got nowhere to be. Hope everyone else came through the storm all right!


	6. Chapter 6

It's a week before she sees him again.

It starts out as getting busy with work. Two neighbors who have been fighting for years over their property boundary come to blows (again), this time severe enough to land one of them in the hospital. She spends two days traveling between the pair, talking them down off the pressing-charges ledge.

But then it's been two days, and she hasn't heard from him. It's not like she's given him her phone number, but he knows where she lives and works. He could stop by, if he wanted to see her. He could ask Ruby for her number.

But he doesn't.

She thinks about that kiss on her forehead, the way it lingered. David kisses her on the forehead all the time – but he never lingers. This was _different_.

It's not just the kiss that consumes her thoughts. She remembers the pain in Killian's voice, the ghosts haunting his eyes. She doesn't want to care this much, but she finds herself wondering who hurt him…and wishing she could hurt that person back.

Not to forget the humiliation of asking a man to stay the night with her and being summarily rejected.

She makes whatever excuses for herself she can for days, but it's not like her to not see Ruby for so long, to not stop in at some point during the week to see her friend.

Besides, she doesn't want Ruby to start asking questions.

Emma hasn't told her about Killian showing up on her doorstep and sleeping on her couch, about the nightmares or the kiss. She hasn't told anyone, not even David with his sideways glances at her obvious distraction. Emma has always been a private person, but she doesn't even know why she's decided to keep this to herself.

It just feels too personal to share with even her closest friends – it feels like even though he's told her nothing, Killian has trusted her with his secrets, and they're not hers to tell.

Ruby is delighted when Emma walks into the bar, a grin stretching across her face. "Blondie!"

Killian raises an eyebrow at the nickname, but turns away without another word. Emma watches him go, unaware of Ruby watching her as she slides onto a stool.

"He's been weird this week," Ruby says suddenly, eyes narrowing and her attention laser focused on Emma. "I assumed something was up with that crazy broad he left here with last week, since he's not saying."

"Nothing to say, then."

"How would you know?"

"If he doesn't want to talk about it, then it's _nothing_," Emma retorts, cursing herself for being this woman, this woman who is making a mountain of assumptions out of a kiss that went five seconds longer than it should have and one evening. Of course he hasn't said anything to Ruby – _she _hasn't said anything to Ruby.

It wasn't even a real kiss.

So why does she feel so hurt at this exact moment?

"Uh huh. So where have you been? Haven't seen you in awhile." Ruby pours Emma a beer, slides it across the bar and leans back against the counter. "Not like you to ignore your bestest friend."

"Oh, you know. Herman and Bob were up to their usual this is my land, no it's not bullshit. Someone punched someone, and it ended up down in Portland at Maine Med." Emma rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her beer and shoving down her impatience with some of the towns more infamous residents. They're both retired, and they're both too old for his nonsense – not that it stops them.

"Men. No matter how old they get, it's always a pissing contest."

"Unless you're David and nothing bothers you – ever."

"How is Prince Charming?"

Emma laughs; Ruby's nickname is a long-standing thorn in David's side – one he's too polite to ever complain about. "He's good. I think he still sort of wants to go kick Walsh's ass for showing up at the station like he did, but you know David. Lots of talk, little actual ass kicking."

"Except that one time."

"Except that one time," Emma agrees softly, her eyes turning to her beer. She doesn't want to think about those memories, about the days when her life was just one gaping wound to the next, so she shoves them a little deeper down.

It's at that moment Killian comes back to the bar, his arms filled with beer cases from the back. Emma can't help but stare, not only for the way the muscle in his arms stands taunt in the fitted long-sleeved tee he's got on, but the careful balancing he's doing to keep the load steady in his arms with only the one hand.

"A hand, lass?" Killian calls to Ruby, wiggling the fingers of his right hand against the cardboard. "Seeing as how I've only the one and you've the two."

Ruby rolls her eyes, turning away from Emma. "You seem to be doing just fine without me," she tells him, but she grabs the top case and carefully slides it away from him.

"But you make such a prettier job of it." He flashes her a grin, all white teeth and dimples. Ruby just laughs and grabs another case from him.

Emma envies them, the easy camaraderie they seem to share. Killian is making jokes about his hand with Ruby, but he won't even look Emma in the eye. He's always polite to her – unfailing polite – but today there's a distance to it.

Maybe it's her fault, her drunken outburst having left a scar she'd never intended. She never did get to that apology.

Maybe it's his fault, showing up drunk at her door the very next day, blaming her for his crappy choice in women.

Maybe it's that goddamn kiss that wasn't a kiss.

But thinking about that only leads Emma's mind down another path, a what-if daydream about what it might be like to actually kiss Killian Jones, to tangle her fingers in his messy hair and feel the scruff of his beard against her lips. She wonders what sort of kisser he would be – gentle and soft? Hard and rough? Would his lips press insistently against hers, or would he take his time, a sweep of skin on skin that would go on forever?

"Must be some interesting thoughts from the look upon your face."

Emma flushes, her head jerking up from her unseeing stare into the bottom of her pint glass. Killian is watching her with a hint of amusement, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. A quick scan of the bar reveals Ruby has disappeared.

"Red went to go call the distributor. Seems we've been shorted a case," he explains, nodding toward the now-empty beer boxes stacked on the counter behind him. He reaches for one, braces it against his left arm and chest while yanking it apart with his right.

"She hates when they do that," Emma mumbles, trying not to stare again. Every time he tugs at the cardboard, all the muscle in his right arm seems to strain against the sleeve of his shirt. She can't help but wonder how his arms would look braced on either side of her head, straining to hold himself…

"You all right, Swan? You're a bit flushed."

"Yes, I'm fine." She shakes her head, banishing the thought. She's not even really interested in Killian, she tells herself. She's just caught up in a moment that wasn't even really a moment, and her imagination has always been vivid.

It's what makes the nightmares so much worse.

He glances over his shoulder, but Ruby is still nowhere in sight. "Listen, Swan, about the other night…" He picks up another box, giving it a firm yank before carefully folding it on top of the other. "I was out of line. I apologize."

"You already apologized. I told you not to worry about it." She should be apologizing, for her own behavior, for the direction of her thoughts.

"Aye, you did." He shifts his weight about, blindly reaching for another box. This one gets dismantled with particular vigor, the cardboard tearing. "Doesn't make my behavior acceptable."

"I nearly threw up on you the night before. I'm pretty sure we're even." It's the closest she can make herself come to the words _I'm sorry_.

"Are we?" He's not looking at her, his attention completely on his mindless task of collapsing beer boxes, but there's something in his voice, a bigger question. Emma doubts they're talking about apologies anymore.

"Are we what?" Emma replies, losing track of the conversation in the midst of her swirling thoughts.

"Even." He looks up then, his eyes blazing with the sort of heat that makes Emma press her thighs together below the bar.

"Yes?" It's not supposed to come out as a question, but that's what happens. Emma tears her eyes away from his, resuming her examination of her pint glass.

"Swan, I…" He hesitates, and Emma's attention snaps back to him.

"Give me your phone," she demands, her level voice a proud accomplishment. She can hear her heartbeat thudding in her ears, because this sort of behavior isn't her normal thing. But there's something about him, something about the way he looks at her, whether it's in the middle of the night or at Ruby's bar, there's just _something_.

She expects an argument, or perhaps even a question, but he just digs his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. "No passcode?" she asks, surprised when she's able to get into the phone just by swiping her finger across the screen.

"My secrets can't be held in bits of plastic and glass."

Emma files the cryptic response away, her fingers moving quickly before she loses her nerve. "Well, if you have more nightmares and want someone to talk to…I'm usually up," she says, trying for lightness and nearly succeeding. Her fingers graze his as she hands the phone back, sending a shiver down her spine.

"When they show up for me, they usually hang around," she adds on, fighting the urge to wince. It's been a week. He's probably been having nightmares nightly. Her offer is much delayed.

"Inviting me to bed, again?" His eyebrows waggle at her, but he has yet to pocket his phone again. He's holding it oddly, like it might explode in his fingers as he watches her. "Might give a man ideas."

"Might." Emma gulps down the last few sips of her beer, hastily wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. This is about as much as she can handle tonight, and even at this, the color is high in her cheeks.

He _unsettles_ her, and Emma is not a woman easily rattled.

"Tell Ruby goodnight for me." She nods toward the back of the bar, flickering her eyes to his as she shrugs on her coat. He's watching her intently, but his expression is unreadable.

She can feel his eyes on her the entire way to the door.

* * *

><p>The last of the snow storm chapters is now yours! Hoping for another good chunk of writing time this weekend :)<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

She's tossing and turning in her bed when she hears the buzz of an incoming message and blindly reaches for the phone on the nightstand.

_Does it actually work? _

She doesn't recognize the number, and it's not a Maine area code, but Emma smiles as she squints at the white-blue light.

_It does for me._

She hits send, returning to the message to program his number into her phone. It's nearly two in the morning, but she hasn't really slept. Her thoughts have been too frantic, too consumed with her potentially idiotic move with Killian.

_Would it be presumptuous of me to be at your door at this hour? _

Emma pauses, listening for a knock, but all she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears. _I did invite you_, she types back, shaking her head at herself. Of course he's not _actually_ at her door.

_Perhaps you should come let me in before the neighbors call the police due to the strange man loitering outside your door_.

That does make her laugh, in spite of the butterflies suddenly filling her stomach. This _is_ what she wanted, after all. She runs her fingers through her hair as she moves toward the door, a half-hearted attempt to make herself presentable.

It's two in the morning. He didn't come for presentable.

That much becomes apparent as she swings open the door. He's standing in the hall, a sheepish expression on his face. His hair is mussed, and he's wearing pajama pants and a long-sleeved thermal top under an obviously hastily thrown on leather jacket. "Yeah, I might call the cops on you," she says softly, holding the door wide. Calling the cops is the furthest thing from her mind with how deliciously rumpled he appears.

"I got up for a glass of water…and somehow ended up here," he explains, turning to face her as she's shutting the door behind them. The words are almost sheepish, and he's avoiding her gaze. "I've been in the hall for a time, wondering if I was…wondering if you meant it."

"Meant what?"

"Your offer."

"Oh." She's blushing again, which she _hates_. Emma doesn't blush, because she (usually) doesn't embarrass easily. Killian is changing that. "Yeah. I meant it."

And she did, but it's awkward tonight, him coming here in the wee hours to climb in bed with her. It was one thing for him to stumble, half-asleep, from the couch to her bedroom. But now, now they're both very much awake, and it's easy for Emma's mind to wander to all the things they could do in her bed besides sleeping.

He shrugs out of his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. The boots go next, and the very disheveled Killian Jones standing before her _looks_ like he belongs in bed.

Except, he's got the prosthetic hand on. She frowns lightly to herself, hoping he doesn't catch the expression before she can smooth her features back out. She doubts he sleeps with it on at home.

Maybe he needs it to drive, she chides herself.

"Do you, uh…do you just want to go to sleep? I was thinking I could make hot cocoa. It helps me." She feels like an even bigger idiot as the words come out of her mouth. He's a grown man, but she's offering him hot chocolate like David's mother used to do for her.

"Sounds lovely."

Her eyes widen in surprise, but she nods, moving toward the kitchen and pulling out a saucepan. He follows, watching her movements. "Not in the microwave, then?"

"Never." Emma pours milk into the pan, reaching for a tin on the counter with bits of chocolate. "Ruins it to microwave the milk. And the chocolate would never melt right."

"I wasn't expecting real chocolate."

"It's one of like three things I can make in here without burning myself or the food. David's mother taught me," she explains. She's talking quietly, her voice low, hushed, in spite of there being no one else in the apartment and the walls not quite that thin. There's something about this hour, the true dead of night, that makes it just seem wrong to be loud.

"She took you in."

"Yeah, I told you the other night." Emma stirs absently, the words falling out without thought. "His mom is the closest thing I've got to a mother."

He's silent for a long while, but it's a comfortable silence as Emma sprinkles cinnamon into the saucepan, stirring lightly to keep the milk from scorching.

"I lost count, too," he finally says, his voice low and burning with a deep, simmering anger Emma knows all too well.

She turns to him, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him and hold him close. His eyes are on fire with it, this sudden burst of rage she's felt too many times before. "I know," she whispers, because she's known since the night he asked her _how many _with barely concealed rage.

She hands him a mug of hot chocolate, sipping at her own. They don't talk, but she leans back against the counter next to him, their hips nearly touching. She's close enough to smell him, his laundry detergent and deodorant and skin all making her want to nuzzle against the soft skin at his throat and just breathe him in.

When they're finished, she takes his mug, rinsing it in the sink and leaving it for the morning to wash. He follows her wordlessly into her bedroom, the bedclothes still a tangled mess from her earlier attempts at sleep.

He waits for her to get into bed first, and Emma smiles at the gesture, because of course she has a side she's used to sleeping on. But the frown comes again when he gets into bed, prosthetic hand still in place.

"Killian…you should take it off. You'll be more comfortable."

"It's fine, lass."

"How do you sleep at home?"

"In a manner not fit for your company," he shoots back, and she doesn't need to see his face in the dark to know the expression he's wearing.

Emma shivers. There's a part of her that wants to argue for _that_ manner, because she's pretty sure it means more than the hand coming off. "You would be more comfortable, then, without the hand or the shirt."

"Leave it be." His voice hardens, the teasing note vanishing. There's a warning there, but she's too stubborn to heed it.

"It's dark. I can't even see. I invited you to sleep in my bed." She reaches out blindly, finds his right hand and squeezes. "It doesn't bother me, Killian."

"Fine," he snaps, and there's a flurry of movement as the covers are thrown back. She can see his silhouette, the jerking motion of his shirt being tugged off. It's followed by cursing and the zip of straps being pulled apart., then a thud. He curses again, his shoulders hunching.

Emma pushes herself across the bed, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. He's wound tightly, his entire back a solid mass of tensed muscle. "It's all right," she says softly, his skin warm beneath her touch in spite of the cool room. "Take a deep breath."

"Don't touch me. That wasn't part of the bargain."

She snatches her hand back, shoving the hurt aside, because she knows, somewhere, she _knows_ this isn't about her. But it still stings, his sharp order. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, her heart aching at his pain.

He doesn't respond right away, but when he does, it's the last thing Emma could have expected. He turns suddenly, his right hand sweeping into her hair seconds before his mouth descends on hers. His kiss is bruising, desperate, and Emma can barely keep up, gasping for air and clinging to his shoulders.

He breaks away just as suddenly, swearing profusely. "Emma, I…"

"It's okay," she gasps out, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

"I…"

"It's okay," she repeats softly, her words now less breathless. Her fingers trail down his left arm, slowly. He hisses as her fingers run over the beginning of the scars, raised, smooth skin she can't see, but he doesn't stop her.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, her fingers hovering over his skin. "Me touching you? Does it hurt?"

"No." The word is choked, and he leans forward, his forehead pressing to hers. "No, that doesn't hurt."

Emma's fingers travel further down his arm, the skin tight under her touch. She can feel the scars, thick ridges of tissue that end abruptly where his hand once was. He makes a low, tortured noise as her fingertips brush over the stump, and Emma snatches her hand back. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it hurt. I…"

He cuts her off with another kiss, just as brutal as the last. His hand is at her hips this time, dragging her onto his lap and holding her against him as his lips and tongue devour her.

They're both breathing heavily by the time they break apart, and Emma speaks before he has the chance. "Don't you dare apologize," she warns, looping her arms around his neck. She doesn't want to stop, wants to keep kissing him, to feel more of him pressed to her, even though she can feel plenty with the thinness of their pants and her position in his lap.

But apparently, she's the only one.

"I didn't come here to ravage you, love." He gently shifts position, sliding her onto the mattress beside him. She nods against his chest, his heartbeat pounding in her ear as she presses closer.

"I know."

"I will, though. One day."

"You will what?" Emma asks, her thoughts too jumbled to follow the conversation. All she can think about is the feeling of him, the softness of his lips and the savageness of his kiss, the sheer _wanting_ she can feel radiating from him. She's doing plenty of wanting on her own.

"Come here to ravage you," he says, the words low and heavy with promise. His hand skims down her side, coming to rest on her hip and sending shivers of anticipation down her spine. "When the time is right."

Emma hums her agreement, not trusting her voice. In her mind, the time is right _now_, but she supposes he has a point. Jumping into bed with a man has never turned out well for her in the past.

"Sleep well," she murmurs into his skin, her eyes closing and her body relaxing. It's warm beneath the blankets, pressed to Killian's skin. Her arm is slung over his waist, rising and falling with his still-rapid breathing, but she can feel him relaxing, his body going limp beside her.

It's her last coherent thought before sleep takes her. It's a dreamless sleep that leaves her waking in the sunshine the next morning, her eyes blinking in confusion at the empty spot beside her, the sheets cooling.

"Killian?" she calls, wondering if he's gotten into her shower or gone to make coffee, but the apartment is quiet and still. She gets out of bed, padding across the cold wood floors, but there's no sign of him.

By the time she gets to the living room, she sees his coat and boots are gone. "What the hell?" she mumbles to herself, pushing her hair out of her eyes and staring around the apartment in bewilderment.

Her phone buzzes with a new message, and Emma hurries back into the bedroom to grab it, more puzzled than ever as she reads the message.

_No nightmares. Thank you._

_You didn't have to leave_, she types back quickly, sinking down on the edge of the bed. _I don't bite in the morning, _she adds, just to keep it light. It's not like she hasn't left a man's bed in the middle of the night before, but this wasn't about _that_. It feels somehow wrong that he isn't there this morning.

There's a pause, and then her phone buzzes once more with a reply.

_I do._

* * *

><p>Progress, kids, progress!<p>

I usually don't bother to do this, but a comment left on the last chapter stuck with me. Whoever left it did so as a guest, otherwise I would have just replied individually. There's no taking "shots" at David/Snow with the having trouble trying to get pregnant line in a previous chapter. I needed them to have a problem, it's a problem my sister dealt with recently and was fresh in my mind, so I used it. I write about Emma and Killian because 1. I just find them more interesting 2. I relate more to their characters. That's it, end of story.

Carry on.


	8. Chapter 8

"Still just talking about nothing?" David asks with forced lightness when Emma picks up her phone – again – to answer its insistent buzz.

"Um…" She hurriedly types a response and shoves the phone back in her pocket. At the moment, they're definitely talking about _something_, but it's nothing she wants to share with David. "Sort of?"

It's been several days since Killian spent the night, since _that_ kiss and his abrupt departure. Emma was upset at first, hurt that he'd snuck out without a word, but he had set her straight the following evening.

Emma still isn't sure she agrees with him, with his insistence they take things slowly (according to him, _properly_) but it's nice, in some ways.

It's also _really_ frustrating in others.

But he told her, in very pointed language, exactly why he left in the morning, and the words were enough to make Emma's skin burn as the blood rushed through her veins. The kiss that followed, a kiss full of promise that ended with her pressed to the back door of the bar, that was just a bonus.

A very good bonus.

She's told David very little, only that they've become friends. She had to tell him something, what with the way her phone lights up every few minutes with a new text message. It doesn't help that she's got that tiny smile on her face every time she sees his name, the newness of it making her giddy.

Killian isn't shiny, and he's far from perfect. The man has a temper; she can see it in his eyes when she's riles him, and he's already lashed out at her. But she also sees gentleness in him, kindness, and a fierce protectiveness. Her thoughts travel back to the night in the bar he offered up his name and a beating to the man who had hurt her all in the same hour.

Yet that same protective streak runs through David. He displays it rarely, but Emma doesn't doubt he would do anything for her, to protect her. It's part of why she's keeping the details of her relationship – whatever it is – with Killian to herself for now. She's not so sure how David would take to this man, one of Ruby's strays, sleeping in her bed and kissing her in the backroom of Ruby's bar.

She'll tell him. Eventually. When she's figured out in her own head what exactly is going on with this man. She knows she's fiercely attracted to him, and from the way his hand roams her body and his lips devour hers, she's certain having him in her bed is going to lead to good places, but it's the rest of it that's got her hesitating.

The way he looks at her sometimes…Emma isn't sure a man has looked at her like that before. Walsh wanted to marry her, but he never looked at her like that, like she was at once a source of pain and bliss and desire all wrapped into one.

Killian does.

She can't quite figure out why he seems so sad sometimes, why his eyes will lose their focus and his mind will wander, but it's not hers to know, not now. He'll tell her when he feels like it, if ever.

Emma has plenty of her own secrets she isn't eager to bring out into the light of day.

So for now, she's playing it his way. She's stopped by the bar every night, and last night he showed up at her door again in the middle of the night. There was no hot chocolate this time, but he kissed her in the hallway outside her bedroom, kissed her fiercely until she was backed against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist, before gently setting her on her feet and climbing into bed with her.

He was gone again this morning, but Emma woke to a series of messages on her phone that left her feeling just as warm as if he had still been in bed with her.

Some things are harder to change. They don't talk about their pasts. Emma wants to ask questions, about his hand, about the nightmares, about his childhood, about what his life was like before he landed on Ruby's doorstep – but she doesn't. Part of her isn't sure she really wants to know.

The bigger part of her doesn't want to open herself up to the same questions, because she's going to have to answer them if he does. It's the right thing to do.

It hasn't really been an issue with the other men in her life. For the most part, they've been casual affairs with one purpose. Even with Walsh, he never asked beyond the cursory answers she provided. Her parents gave her up. David's mom took her in, but with a tacit understanding that Emma was closing the door on everything that came before. End of story.

But it won't be the end with Killian. She knows, because there's something searching in that sad gaze of his. He sees through her. She knows it in her bones, and that is more terrifying than anything else.

He sees every inch of glue, every scrap of tape, and he wants her anyway.

The first night he met her, though indirectly, David had to carry her out of a bar. This was followed by another round of binging on each of their parts, though he alone received the privilege of standing on the other side of a bathroom door while she puked her guts out.

Emma can't actually fathom what it is about her that drew him in, but she's glad something did. It's easier in some ways, since he's already seen her bad side. He knows she deals with her problems with tequila, and she knows he deals with his problems with rum.

The both of them can be particularly nasty when truly angry. Emma can still hear the venom in his voice the night he told her not to touch him. (_That wasn't part of the bargain_.) It's not like she's done any better, though. (_We're not friends._)

She hopes that in the end what wins is the easy part. The conversations about why they don't just sell the tops of muffins at the grocery store (it's the only part anyone actually _wants_ to eat) or the easy silence of the middle of the night, that's the Killian that Emma wants more of. It's easier to be lighter with him when things are light between them, when the pressure of emotions and _feelings_ aren't involved.

The problem is Emma isn't sure she's capable of closing her emotions off from one Killian Jones. Like Ruby, he has a knack for seeing right through her. Any lies she tells him about her day or her mood, they'll be recognized as such almost immediately.

She doesn't think he'll be quite so generous as Ruby is on letting it slide.

"You're sure you're just friends with this guy?" David cuts into her thoughts abruptly, handing her a fresh cup of coffee. That's what she's doing with him in the car, after all. Getting coffee.

"Of course I'm sure." And she is – because a handful of kisses, no matter how intense or welcome those kisses are – does not a relationship make.

"If you say so, Em." David levels her with one of those looks she hates, the one that make her wonder if maybe somehow, someway, they really _are_ related – or if he's just gotten _that_ good at the disapproving brother act over the years.

"I do."

He sighs, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear lever, about to put the car into drive. "It's just really fast. You just got out of that relationship with Walsh, and Killian is…"

"Broken?" Emma cuts in, her eyes narrowing over the rim of her coffee cup. He's trying to hide it, but the judgmental tone in David's voice is coming through loud and clear. "What, David? What's wrong with Killian? Is he too damaged for me?"

He's silent at first, and Emma's blood burns all the hotter for it. But when he does speak, it's painfully obvious he's picking and choosing his words carefully.

"He's the first man I've seen you look at like you…since…you look at him sometimes how Mary Margaret looks at me. Sometimes. For just a second or two. But you do."

And just like that, her veins turn to ice.

"I don't…I'm not…That's ridiculous," she sputters turning to glare out the window. Mary Margaret, though a lovely woman, is a lovesick sap a great deal of the time, as far as Emma is concerned. She's seen the way Mary-Margaret looks at David plenty of times – it's an expression Emma isn't capable of.

He doesn't respond, and the silence between them is uneasy, but Emma is grateful for it all the same. She doesn't need David to keep talking to her; she needs a bit of quiet to sift through her thoughts.

What _does_ she feel for Killian Jones? Because she feels _something_, and it's something different than she felt for Walsh or the string of men before him. But she can't put her finger on it, other than the obvious attraction. She barely knows the man, after all.

It's anticipation, she tells herself, watching the passing scenery as David drives them back to the station. She's never had a man keep her at arm's length like this, never had a man willing to kiss her until she's practically ignited in his arms, but not go any further.

So once they get to the finish line, that will likely be the end of it. Emma will have sex with him, and instead of being a mystery and a wonder, Killian Jones will turn out to be like any other man. Their shared past will no longer be a point of comfort but instead an eventual nuisance when they can't trust each other, when everything boils down to what happened to him or what happened to her.

The glue will crumble and the duct tape will peel away, and the pieces will be all that's left behind.

Her heart squeezes in her chest, an unexpected jolt of pain rattling her. She doesn't _want_ that future with him, the one where they use each other up, spit each other out. The trouble is, beyond in her bed, Emma doesn't know what she _does_ want from Killian…though she's beginning to think it's a lot more than she's bargained for.

With a sideways glance at David, Emma closes her eyes and lets the scalding coffee pour down her throat, the hot liquid warming her from the inside out. She doesn't mind. Her thoughts have left her chilled.

* * *

><p>To all of the people who left me kind reviews or sent me such nice messages after my comments at the end of the last chapter, <em>thank you<em>. I was more irritated than anything (if you don't like it, no one makes you read it) but it's awesome to know such great people are the ones reading my work.

In other news...they're calling for another foot of snow on Monday and my first thought was basically SWEET MORE WRITING TIME. Thanks, New England. We'll just ignore that I'll have to work all day from home and pretend it's a snow day like I'm a kid. Adult snow days need to be a thing.

Killian and Emma also need to be a thing. We'll work on that.


	9. Chapter 9

Emma is just about to turn out the lights for the night when the knock comes, soft enough she almost misses it. Puzzled, she glances over at the clock – it's just before ten. It's early for her to be going to sleep, but she's exhausted from her day, from the _thinking_ she's been doing.

She debates ignoring it, glancing at her dark phone, but in the end, Emma's got better manners (most days) than to ignore a knock at the door. With a grumble under her breath, she shuffles to the door, her hands chafing at her arms in the chill. Whoever it is, it better be good.

"You're early," she blurts out, finding Killian standing outside her door. He's decidedly less rumpled than usual today, though still plainly in his pajamas. They didn't have plans, but given how things have been going, she has been expecting him to show up, though not for hours yet.

"That a problem, love?" He offers her a cheeky smile and a raised eyebrow. "I can come back."

Emma shakes her head, tugging him through the door and rising onto her toes to press a kiss on his mouth, her fingers tanging in his hair. She was too agitated by her conversation with David to go to the bar after work, and it's a nice surprise to find him here now, to breathe him in and feel the softness of his hair under her fingers.

"I should arrive earlier in the evening more often, it seems. I've been missing out," Killian murmurs in her ear as they break apart, one arm balanced on her waist while he strokes her hair back from her face.

Emma nods, leaning in for another kiss, pressing the entire line of her body against his. She's not half asleep tonight, but very much awake, and with him here, this is a preferable way to try to clear her mind of all the swirling thoughts.

Her hands slide over the soft Tshirt he's got on beneath his leather jacket, working the leather free of his shoulders and tugging it down his arms. He's still got his back to her front door, Emma's body keeping him there as her kisses grow more demanding, but she pulls back just a fraction so the material falls to the floor.

"Emma…" It's barely a mumble against her hair, her touch now sliding below his shirt and over the soft skin and taunt muscle of his belly. Her hands are cold against his warm skin, but that's not the only reason he shivers.

She ignores him, her fingers sliding below the waist of his pants to trace the V of muscle further down his hips. He lets loose a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a moan and a groan, but then he's pushing her back. "Slow down, love."

"Why?" She asks the question, but gives him no time to reply, pressing another kiss against his lips. She's not sure she's ever wanted a man this badly, and whatever his reasons are, it's not for lack of wanting he's trying to slow things down – his body has made that _very_ obvious.

She seems to have won, but then he's pushing on her hip again, ever so gently. "What's the matter?" he asks, his voice just a little lower than usual, the only outward sign beyond the brightness of his eyes that it's a struggle for him to stop her, to ask this question.

"Nothing." She steps back, her eyes settling on the floor. "I just…"

He tugs her back into his arms, his fingers spread wide between her shoulder blades, his arms surrounding her. "You can tell me, love." His voice is soothing, inviting, and for a second, Emma debates telling him – telling him that this thing with them, she doesn't really know what to do with it. She doesn't know how to process her _wanting_ of him and her fear of him, and since the physical side isn't a problem, she retreats to that when her mind gets too busy, _properly_ be damned.

But they don't talk about things like that, and Emma isn't throwing the first stone into the pond. Those ripples…she's not prepared for them. She's not really sure he is, either.

"I just missed you," she finally says, sighing and pressing her cheek to his shoulder. "Long day."

"Aye." He takes a deep breath, finally moving away from the door and toward her bedroom. "Bed, then?"

She nods, taking his outstretched hand and lacing her fingers with his. She's hoping tonight will be like any other night so far between them, that his presence will be a balm and afford her an easy night's sleep, but she's so keyed up she doubts it will work.

It's been a long time since the nightmares have come, but tonight, Emma is afraid to close her eyes. She's the strong one here, the one who comforts him in the night – she can't be the one who wakes up shrieking and shaking, too. Enough of her cracks are showing already.

They settle into bed together, quiet but warm. She doesn't ask why he's come early tonight, and he doesn't offer an explanation. There's no argument now, and though he still keeps his back to her when he does it, Emma is growing used to the _zip_ of the straps of his brace being pulled apart, the rustling of fabric that means he's removed his shift. It's intimate, going to bed together at a reasonable hour, making a decision that isn't motivated by midnight panic.

Whatever his reason, in spite of her worries all day, Emma _likes_ it. She likes curling up against him, being wrapped in his arms and hearing his heartbeat in her ear. It's not satisfying her _want_ all that well, but it soothes something else, something long buried.

Eventually, sleep comes for her, but so do the nightmares.

She's fourteen, and she's running, all spindly legs and flying blonde hair. She's trying to breathe, struggling, and the tears and snot and _fear_ are making it almost impossible to keep racing forward without her lungs exploding. She just has to get away, has to keep from getting caught.

But she's just not fast enough.

She promises herself she won't cry this time, that she won't make a sound, but it's a lie – it's always a lie. The screams come, so loud and raw that her throat burns, but it doesn't end.

"Emma!"

She jolts awake, the scream still on her lips. She's shaking, and Killian is leaning over her, his fingers cupping her jaw and his eyes impossibly blue in the darkness, wide with concern.

"I'm okay," she manages to get out, torn between pressing herself closer and pushing him away. She usually can't stand to be touched when the nightmares come, a terrifying mix of memory and her worst fears all smashed into one. But there's something about him, his steadiness, that makes it a little easier, tonight.

"Can I…did you want…" He trails off, and she sees it on his face, the frustration and the helplessness that so many men who've shared her bed have shown. They don't know how to help her – they usually _can't_ help her.

She just thought Killian would understand a bit more, but she supposes she's wrong.

"I'm okay," she repeats, pulling away from him and letting her voice harden, letting the coldness that keeps her safe back in. She waits for it, the flicker of irritation and the turned shoulder, the signs he's given up and going back to sleep.

"I could make you some of that hot chocolate," he offers, surprising her so much that it must show all over her face. "Aye, lass, I may make a mess of it, but you say it helps you."

"Could you just stay?" she asks before she can stop herself, hating how shaken she still sounds, hating that she can feel the tremor in her limbs that will take hours to fully pass.

"Aye, I can manage that." He bends, kissing her lightly while his thumb brushes against her cheek. "You're quite sure there's nothing else?"

"You'll be here in the morning?" she presses, her eyes darting to his before going back to the ceiling. She can't explain it to him, but she just_ knows_ that after a night like this, she can't find an empty bed again. She doesn't care about his reasons for leaving.

"Emma." He says her name softly, but there's a command in his voice, and nearly against her will, she drags her eyes back to his. His gaze is intense, entirely focused on her. When he's certain he has her attention, he speaks again, never taking his eyes off her. "I am_ not going anywhere_."

"Okay."

"Okay." He sighs, easing onto his back and gathering her into his arms, his grip on her tight and protective. "Will you be able to sleep?"

"Maybe."

He runs his fingers through her hair, his touch lingering against her scalp with each stroke. It's a simple gesture, but Emma can feel her body relaxing again, the steady rhythm of it lulling her back to sleep.

Her dreams are filled with dark shadows, faceless foes, and the pounding of feet on the pavement, but it's not as terrifying as it was earlier in the night. She doesn't wake screaming, and the shaking passes. Instead, she's left with the general sense of unease, like she's going to spend the day looking over her shoulder.

But as consciousness comes for her, the sound of Killian's breathing fills her ears, the scent of him enveloping her as neatly as the blankets and his arms. She hasn't moved from her place pressed against him, her cheek to his chest.

"Morning." His voice is a low rumble in her ear, his hand coming up to her shoulder to stroke her skin lightly. He hasn't been awake more than a few moments himself, from the sounds of it.

She returns the greeting, but she doesn't move from her spot nestled against him. This is new, waking up pressed together like this. She's not sure she's ever had this with a man before – she's used to waking up sprawled across the bed with a foot of space between her and her bedfellow. If they've even managed to spend the night together.

But it's a good change. Killian is warm and solid beneath her, and true to his word, he hasn't gone anywhere. She's exhausted from her dreams, but he's a balm on her frayed psyche.

They lay together in silence, a cozy cocoon of warmth in the quilts. It's not the awkward silence Emma has been dreading; his fingers are almost lazy as they trace idle patterns on her shoulder. She's been doing the same across his bare chest and abdomen, and it's not that she's not attracted to him in this moment, but it just doesn't seem quite so important as preserving this peace between them.

The day, with its wants and expectations and words, it can wait.

* * *

><p>A little pre Super Bowl CaptainSwan never hurt anyone...<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

"We should get up," she mumbles into his skin, tightening her grip on him and pressing closer. "I've got night shift tonight, but if I don't go to the grocery store or do some laundry, it's going to be a sad state of affairs around here."

He chuckles, his hand sliding down to her hip to hold her against him. "What sort of crimes go on in the evening hours worth taking you from your bed? This doesn't seem the sort of town to facilitate criminal activity."

She picks her head up at that, struggling not to smile at the truth of the matter. He's right – she'll mostly be reading a book and drinking coffee to stay awake, waiting for the off chance a call comes in. She's tried to convince David this isn't even necessary – they can be on call from home just as easily in such a small town, but he's stickler for his rules.

Out of the corner of her eye, she realizes Killian's prosthetic hand is still on the nightstand. She's never seen him without it in the light of day, but she's smart enough to realize that's a big step for him – she's not sure he's going to want to take it today. The fact that his left arm is still beneath the blankets makes her certain of it.

She bends, pressing her lips to his in a lingering kiss. It's not meant to be anything more than that, but his arm wraps around her waist, and then they're pressed tightly together. It's too easy to slide her leg over his hips, stretch her body over his and deepen their kiss with roaming hands.

He rolls them easily, pinning Emma beneath him. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, holding her gaze just seconds longer than she's really comfortable with, but then he's kissing her again, carefully balanced on his arm while his hand drags down her body. She can see the fine scars that stretch up to his shoulder, the delicate lines that she knows from touch will turn uglier as they make their way down his arm, but that she's never actually seen.

All thought of Killian's injuries flies out of her mind as he palms her breast, gently kneading the soft flesh as she arches up against him. White-hot desire floods her veins, her fingers tightening in his hair and a throaty gasp leaving her lips.

She remembers his explanation, his reasons for not staying – the intense look in his eyes as he described his physical attraction to her, how waking in bed beside her would undo him completely, how he wants to _do things properly_ with her. Emma was of half a mind he was just saying it all to placate her, to explain away a possible lack of desire.

She's discovering how very wrong she was. Killian's desire is obvious, pressed to her thigh just inches from where she wants him. Her fingers itch to touch him, to feel the velvety smooth skin and hear his breath catch. She slides her hand down his back, pushing at the waistband of his pants. She halfway expects him to resist, but he's much too preoccupied with kissing her to argue.

Her phone picks that moment to start ringing, and the noise is enough to startle them apart. Emma glares at it, but pulls him back to her, muttering a breathless, "Ignore it."

He seems happy to oblige, bending his head to kiss her throat, his tongue tracing the line of her jaw as his hand pushes the strap of her shirt off her shoulder, his lips soon following. Emma sighs with the pleasure of it, resuming her task of undressing him.

The banging on the door makes her jump, and Killian breaks away from her, one eyebrow raised. "Expecting someone, love?" His voice is breathless, and a thrill runs down her spine, a deep satisfaction coming over her knowing she's the reason for it.

"No one but you," she replies, peering over his shoulder toward the front door, like she can somehow see through walls and doors. "They'll go away. Kiss me."

"Mmm…" He slides further down the bed, pressing a wet kiss to her exposed stomach, his beard tickling the sensitive skin. He's kissing his way up, pushing the shirt out of the way as he goes, but then Emma's damned phone is ringing again.

She curses a blue streak as he pulls away from her, stretching to grab her phone and snap a greeting at whoever is calling.

"Good morning to you, too, Blondie. Too much to drink last night?" Ruby's somewhere between annoyed and amused. Emma never ignores her phone.

"Just…busy." Emma has to bite her lip to stifle a gasp. Killian has resumed his task, kissing and touching and Emma really doesn't want to be on the phone.

"So you did forget."

"Forget what?"

"Breakfast plans, remember? You, night shift. Us, breakfast at Granny's. You were going to explain to me what the hell you've been up to with Killian."

"You're at my door, aren't you?" That stops him, and Emma could cry with frustration. She mouths an apology to him, flopping back into the pillows. "Surprised you didn't just bust in here."

"I told you, I lost my key. You gonna come let me in or what?"

Emma is tempted to reply _or what _and put her phone on silent. But the moment is broken, Killian sliding off her body and adjusting his pants back to their proper position. "Yeah, just give me a minute to put on pants."

She hangs up before Ruby can hear Killian's low chuckle. "Unfortunately, we never got you out of those pants, Swan."

"Tell me about it." She should get moving, but she can't resist another kiss, her fingers splayed across his jaw. A growl of frustration is threatening to break free, but he's smiling when she pulls away.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replies, voice full of promise. He nods toward the door, gesturing with the slightest hint of disappointment. "You better go let her in."

"Do you want me to…" Emma hesitates, uncertain of what she evens wants. "Do you want Ruby to know you're here?"

"Do you?" His expression is unreadable, his voice even. Ruby's been fed the same story as David – they've become friends. Emma hasn't told her the rest of it, that he's been spending the night, that she _feels_ things for him.

"It's all right, love." He presses a kiss to her cheek at her hesitance, offering her a smile that she's pretty sure is forced. She can't quite but her finger on it, but it's like a cloud passing on a sunny day – the beach hasn't changed a bit, but it looks (_feels_) a heck of a lot different. "I'll let myself out in a bit, once you've gone."

"I just…" She sighs, knowing she's got maybe another thirty seconds before Ruby starts banging on the door again. "I don't know what this…I'd like to keep it to ourselves for a bit, while we figure it out."

He nods his agreement, but his expression is still carefully blank. Emma hesitates, feeling like she's walking on a wire and getting out of bed is going to be the gust of wind that shoves her into a ravine, but there's just no time.

She rushes to the door, flinging it open full of apologies. Ruby eyes her suspiciously, especially when Emma doesn't give her the opportunity to even walk into the apartment, hustling her down the hallway while she's still shrugging on her coat.

"You're being awfully weird this morning."

"Huh?"

"Emma." Ruby grabs her arm, pulling her to a stop before they go outside. Her eyes roam over her friend, taking in Emma's appearance.

It takes seconds for her to put it together.

"He's in your apartment!" Ruby announces triumphantly, a grin bursting onto her features. "That's what's wrong with you!"

"He's not…"

"Oh, don't bother trying to lie to me, Em. Your hair is a mess. Your mouth is all red, like _someone_ with a beard has been kissing you." Ruby laughs, giving Emma a sideways glance. "Someone's been kissing you _a lot_."

Emma shrugs helplessly, a sheepish expression on her face. "I was going to tell you. I just…needed some time with it. With him."

"Yeah, I bet you do." Ruby shakes her head, gesturing to the floor above them. "You should have just told me. We can get breakfast another day. You don't just leave a man looking like that in your bed. Have I taught you nothing?"

"It's not…well, it was about to be, but…"

"You haven't…"

"Nope."

"But you were just about to?"

"Seemed that way."

"Emma!"

"What? You were the one who wouldn't stop calling and banging on my door!"

Emma's suddenly feeling very defensive. This is why she didn't tell Ruby or David or anyone anything about her and Killian. Her friends find out she's seeing someone, and suddenly, they want to _help_ by dispensing out advice Emma doesn't want to hear.

Ruby only rolls her eyes and gestures toward the stairs they've just descended. "We'll do breakfast another time. Can't just leave the man hanging."

"You sure?" Emma already has one foot sliding toward the stairs, and she's feeling a little foolish for how badly she wants to get back to him, but really, breakfast with Ruby is the _last_ place she wants to be today.

"Uh huh." Ruby waves her off, and Emma doesn't spare her another thought as she hurries up the stairs and down the hall. If things go her way, Killian will still be in bed. She'll just slip back between the warm sheets and they can finish what they started.

Things do not go her way.

Killian turns at her entrance, but he's already got one arm in his jacket. He doesn't say anything at her sudden reappearance, yanking the remaining sleeve into place.

"Ruby and I are going to go another day," she tells him, lingering by the door at his cool reception.

"Hope it wasn't on my account," he says mildly, finally meeting her gaze. His expression is the same carefully blank one he adopted earlier, and she doesn't like it, not one bit.

"It was." It feels odd to say it, to spell it out that she's chosen him this morning. She wants to be here with him, to recapture the perfection of the slide of his skin against hers.

"More's the pity, then." He crosses the room, stopping before her and leaning down to kiss her cheek. It's perfunctory, at best. "I've got to be on my way."

"But…"

"We'll chat later, yeah?" It's an absent addition to his goodbye, his hand on the door. His eyes are focused somewhere over her shoulder, and he doesn't wait for her reply before he's gone, leaving a stunned Emma behind.

"What the hell just happened?" she asks the empty living room, watching the door like she expects him to come barreling back through it. But the door remains closed, and as she shakes herself out of it and sets about her day, her phone remains quiet.

By the time she heads to work, she's wavering between pissed and heartbroken. She isn't positive what the issue is, but if she was a betting woman, it's got something to do with not just telling Ruby she was with him in the first place.

Which is _bullshit_. They're not a thing. He's not her boyfriend. They haven't even had sex yet, since this morning's close call doesn't count. She doesn't owe him explanations, and _she_ gets to choose when to tell _her_ friends the details of her personal life. Sure, she likes him, and she _really_ likes having him in her bed, but that doesn't suddenly give him an opinion – not that he actually bothered to express one.

If she wasn't so crushed by his silence, she would almost believe it.

Because the reality is, no matter how desperately Emma tries to cling to the protection of being angry, the truth is, this _hurts_. He keeps telling her he isn't going anywhere, but when push comes to shove, when she toes over the line she isn't even aware exists, he bolts.

"Yeah, you would have handled it so much better if he wanted to keep you a secret," she scolds herself, leaning back in her desk chair and glaring at the silent scanner. She's only been here an hour, and she's already close to losing it, left with her thoughts and stupid, dark, silent phone.

Cramming her palms against her closed eyes, Emma takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, fighting for calm. She's been to therapists – David's mother made her – but nothing has ever really helped her not have an overblown reaction to people walking out on her. Killian doesn't know it, but leaving this morning, it's the worst thing he could have done. Emma could have handled his anger, his hurt, yelling,_ anything_ would be better than the cold indifference he showed her.

But he has no way of knowing that. Just as she has no way of knowing that making him her dirty secret was exactly the wrong thing to do, until it's all coming down around her.

Emma picks up her phone, scrolling to his name in her messages. She starts to type, then stops, erasing the words that don't seem right. It's a series of starts and stops, and an hour later, she still hasn't managed to send a single word.

"Fuck it," she mumbles, shoving her phone in her pocket and reaching for her jacket. David knows where to find her if something actually happens, and she'll catch hell for not being where she's supposed to, but she _can't_ just sit here.

This is her self-fulfilling prophecy, their pasts and their secrets already pushing and pulling at the tenuous hold they have on each other. It's not the first time Emma has found herself with barely a foot in the door before everything blows up in her face, but she just _can't_ accept it this time.

She has no idea what she's going to say when she gets there, but all Emma knows is that she needs to see him, needs to find a way to make him understand that she's an idiot sometimes, but it doesn't mean she doesn't want this, doesn't want _him_. She's going to have to step outside her comfort zone of lips and hands and skin – she's going to have to rely on _words_.

She only hopes she remembers how.

* * *

><p>Taking advantage of the snow and being trapped in my house by writing? Yes, please.<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

Once she's moving, she doesn't stop to think. Emma barely remembers the drive from the station to the Rabbit Hole, hurriedly throwing the car into park and rushing into the bar. She's not even positive he's working tonight, but it's her best guess.

It's not like she knows where he lives. It's not like she's ever bothered to ask, she realizes with a wince.

It's Ruby who sees her first, her brows drawing together in concern at Emma's sudden appearance. "Aren't you working tonight?" she asks as Emma crosses the room, her eyes scanning for Killian.

"Yeah." Her inspection doesn't reveal him, and her heart sinks. "Is he?"

"Nope." Ruby pops the _p_ as she says it, a wary expression taking over. "Said he needed the night off. I assumed he was going to be spending it with you."

Emma's heart clenches, and she has to grip the edge of the bar to keep hold of her emotions. There's no logical reason for her reaction – it's barely been a week since that first kiss – but she can't explain it. She _needs_ to see him tonight.

"Do you have his address?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Obviously not."

Ruby sighs, folding her arms over her chest and leveling Emma with a hard gaze. "You're not going to like it."

"Just tell me."

"He's staying at Gold's flea bag motel." Ruby makes a sound of disgust. "I've told him he's welcome to crash on my couch a bunch of times, but he just says he's going to figure something out."

"He lives in a motel?" Emma repeats back, dumbfounded. She knows he's new in town, and if she's honest with herself, it could have easily been her living in cheap motels if not for David and his mother. But to actually hear it, to know it…it's another piece of the puzzle that is Killian Jones – a jagged piece.

Emma doesn't think; she just turns for the door, getting back in her car and driving across town. Gold's Seaside Inn is near the water, all the better to lure tourists in, but the place is a hellhole. Emma has been there plenty, usually to break up fights or arrest drunks. It's not a fit place for anyone to live, and certainly not Killian.

It doesn't occur to her until she's arrived that she has no idea which room is his. A glance at the office is quickly dismissed – Gold is never willing to give her much information, even when she's got a warrant and a badge. He won't be saying a word about one of his patrons.

So she picks up her phone, finds his name in her list of contacts, and presses send.

He picks up right before it goes to voicemail, his voice slurred. Emma curses silently, hating the entire situation. They're so much the same at times, and this, this obvious sign that something is _wrong_ just breaks her heart a little bit more.

"Which room are you in?" she demands without preamble, hoping she'll catch him off guard and he'll answer the question.

"Why, my room, of course, Swan."

"Yes, I know. Which room _number_?"

"How…"

"Ruby. Room number, Jones, or so help me god I'm going to start banging on every door until I find you." She's not sure if she actually would, but the threat works and he mumbles a number. Emma hangs up without another word, glancing up at the rows of rooms and heading in the direction of the number he's given her.

He looks like hell when he opens the door, but that's not what catches her attention the most. He's clad in the pajama pants she's seen plenty of, but his undershirt leaves all the scars trailing up his right arm exposed to the dim lights. He's not wearing the prosthetic hand, and the scarred skin is shiny and red. She's felt the scars, knows they're there, but to see them is another business all together.

"Aye, have a good look, Swan." He's bitter, but he stands still under her eye, not bothering to try to hide any of it. "Satisfied?"

She shakes herself out of it, out of the horrible possibilities as to what could have caused that sort of damage. She turns her attention back to him instead, to the neat stacks of clothes on the flimsy dresser and the messy bed. "You can't live here," she says firmly, closing the door behind her and marching into the room like she has some sort of authority.

"Lived in worse."

"So have I," she snaps before she can stop herself. She doesn't know where the anger is coming from, but she's not hurt anymore, she's just _pissed_. Pissed at him for walking out, pissed at herself for not _thinking_ this morning, and pissed that living in in a place like this is acceptable to him. "Get your things."

"Don't think I'll be doing that."

Emma ignores him, searching the room for any sign of a bag. She barely knows what she's doing once she finds an old canvas duffle and starts grabbing stacks of clothes, shoving them in a messy jumble into the bag. She just knows that she can't leave him here, drunk and in this awful place. She doesn't care if he sleeps on her couch, or Ruby's couch, or in her bed (it's a lie, she wants him in her bed) but he's not staying here another damn night.

"Stop." He grabs her arm, holds on tight, almost tight enough to hurt. "This is not your concern, Swan." His eyes are bloodshot and hard.

"You're wrong." She grits her teeth, snatching her arm back. "This is my concern. _You_ are my concern."

"Aye." He spits the word out, coated in bitterness. "Mind sharing with me when that happened? Because this morning…"

"This morning caught me off guard." Emma stops shoving his things in the bag, turns to face him fully. "It's never been like _this_ for me."

He opens his mouth to retort, and she can just tell from the sneer of his lips it's going to be something unpleasant, but he snaps his mouth shut before the words come out. His shoulders slump, his eyes suddenly flooding with hurt and desire and something else, something soft and tender. "For me neither," he says, eventually, begrudgingly.

"I told her, for what it's worth. That's why I came back. Because I told her, and I _wanted_ to be with you."

He nods, his eyes sliding closed and his hand worrying his brow. "I'll tell you the whole story, one day."

"When you're ready. I can wait." She pauses, looking around the dingy room once more. "But you can't stay here."

"Emma…"

"No!" It's almost a shout, and her hands are balled into fists at her side. She forces herself to breathe, to speak more evenly, because her temper is flaring all over again. "No," she repeats, resuming her task of packing his things. "Do you know what I learned, bouncing from all those foster homes and groups homes? You want to find a way to put yourself back together, you start by living in a _home_. Not just some place with a room over your head, or a place that calls itself a home, but a real, actual _home_."

"Yours?"

"Mine," she says firmly, zipping the bag shut. He's got surprisingly little beyond his clothes, and even those aren't in heavy supply. "Where's your coat? We can come back tomorrow to settle your bill and get your car since you obviously can't drive."

"You're a trifle bossy." It's the first thing he's said to her since she barged in that isn't heavy with anger or bitterness, and Emma meets him halfway with a tiny smile.

"I can be." She sets the bag at their feet, looping her arms around his neck and pressing close. "You _terrify_ me, Killian. Sometimes I need a beat. But I want this, with you, whatever it is. And I want you to stop feeling like this is the sort of place you deserve. I know it feels that way now, but _trust me_, it isn't true."

"Isn't it, though?"

"No." She curls her palms around his jaw, pulls his down and kisses him, kisses him with everything she's got. It takes him a minute to respond, to wrap his arms around her and kiss her back. He tastes of rum, but he's still _Killian_ beneath it. He shudders, a tremor she can feel as he releases her.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I will stay with you, for now." He's says it slowly, like he's making a deal with the devil, but Emma doesn't really care. He's agreed, and that's what she's hearing.

"Good." She hands him his jacket, waits for him to get it on and fights the urge to help him, because she's pushed him enough for tonight. She doesn't see the prosthetic hand about anywhere, but she isn't going to ask.

He disappears into the bathroom, reemerging with a small toiletry bag. His smile is the ghost of the one she knows, a sketch of the broad grin of mischief she likes best, but it's a start. Without another word, he takes the bag she's packed from her shoulder and follows her out the door.

It's a quiet ride back to her apartment. She was so certain when she went to the motel about her plan, certain it was the right thing to do. The thought of him living in that place, that place where horrible things happen, she couldn't bear it. But now that she's doing it, now that Killian and his bags (_his baggage_) are coming home with her, her confidence is wavering in the face of his stony silence.

Emma can't fix anyone. She's barely holding it together herself.

"I'll get you a key made tomorrow," she says as they walk in, awkward. "So you can come and go as you please."

"All right." He sets the bag down in the middle of the floor, looking around the living room they've spent so little time in together. "Swan, I don't know what to say." The liquor is wearing off, and in the place of drunkenness, sheer exhaustion is setting in. It's written all over his face.

"That makes two of us." She forces a wry smile, gesturing to his bag. "The bottom drawer of my dresser is mostly empty and there's room in the closet."

"Okay."

"Killian…" She takes a step toward him, laying a hand tentatively on his arm, still covered with his jacket. "I know I sort of forced this all on you, but…"

"Your bed _is_ much more comfortable." He pulls her close, his hand tangled in her hair as he kisses her forehead gently. "You've got a wonderful heart, Emma Swan."

"So do you," she whispers, closing her eyes and remembering his concern in the face of her nightmares, nightmares that have driven off plenty of men before him. She stands there in the middle of the living room, lost in thought and the feel of him for as long as she dares.

"I'm so sorry." She takes a step back, pulling out her phone to check the time. "I've got another few hours left to my shift."

"You're supposed to be at work."

"Yeah."

He raises an eyebrow at her, his expression shifting with too many emotions to decipher. "You left your job to do this?"

"Yeah." She doesn't dwell on it, doesn't let herself let that really sink in. "I'll be back in a few hours. We can talk?"

"Aye." He squeezes her fingers as he releases her. Emma pauses at the door, wishing more than anything that she could stay here with him, settle him in, hold him close, but she's already more than pushing her luck. David will be trouble enough, what with her having a man move in with her she knows next to nothing about.

Not that that's entirely true, she thinks to herself as she hurries back to the station. She doesn't know his history; she doesn't know what landed him here. But she knows he _feels_, and that he _cares_ about her. He's wounded, but he's not broken beyond repair.

She worries the entire time she's at the station, worries he'll have fled while she's working, worries she'll return to a cold and closed off man. But instead, she finds him asleep in her bed, tense with furrowed brows.

The lines smooth as she settles in next to him, curling close. He wakes, just barely, but enough to bury his face in her hair and wrap his arms tightly around her.

For tonight, it's more than she could have asked for.

* * *

><p>Y'all say the nicest things. All the reviews and PMs make me smile every time I open them!<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

He's not in bed when Emma wakes up, and for the thirty seconds it takes her to realize the shower is running, she can feel the panic rising in her throat. Impulse had driven most of her actions last night, but the shadows of her dreams had been filled with chasing after a ghost – it's not hard to put that together.

She sinks back into the pillows, squeezing her eyes shut and listening to the sound of the pipes. She wishes things were different, that she could slip out of bed and into the shower with him, but she doubts he would welcome her this morning, and the rejection is not something she can take.

It's a day off for her, and she runs through her mental list of tasks. A key for Killian. Returning to Gold's dump of a motel to get Killian's car and make sure his bill is settled. And then…

And then, nothing. Emma has no other plans. She doesn't know if Killian is expected at the bar, or if he had other plans for his day.

It's just the start to a very long list of the many things she doesn't know.

The water shuts off, and Emma holds her breath, waiting for him to reappear in the bedroom. She's tense, her worry and concern and lingering anger all wrapped up with her desire for him, her fear of him and the havoc he can wreak on her emotions.

The door creaks open, his footsteps light on the wooden floors as he pads down the hall. Emma watches the doorway for his appearance, offering a hesitant smile when she finally sees him. "Hey."

"Morning." He's done a poor job drying off, drops of moisture running from his hair down his chest, where they eventually disappear into the waistband of his pants – pants which sit indecently low on his hips. He's got a towel in his hand, rubbing absently at his damp hair while he leans against the doorframe.

"Sleep okay?"

He shrugs, continuing to rub at his hair. His left arm is hanging limply at his side, the scars standing out in stark relief. His gaze follows hers to the ruined skin, and he sighs. "I suppose you'll be wanting to know."

"If you want to tell me." Emma's leaning back against the headboard, the blankets still covering her legs. She aches to go to him, but she stays put. If he wants to be touched, he'll come to her. She knows what it is to recount horrors rather left buried.

He hesitates in the door a moment longer, silent and watching her. What he's looking for, she can't guess, but he must find it because he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed at her side. "I don't remember a lot of it," he begins, his eyes on the scars on his arm, the place where his hand should be. He rubs at it, almost absently. "So a lot of this is what I've been told."

"Killian, we don't have to…"

His good hand darts out, grabs hers and laces their fingers together. "Aye, I think we do." He's so serious, but his touch is gentle, and Emma tells herself she just needs to breathe.

"There was…a woman. That's mainly a tale for another time. I met her not long after I'd lost my brother. Suffice to say, I made her my life. I fell in love with her, the way only a foolish, lost young lad could.

"We fought a great deal over the years we were together, if together was what it could be called. She was a passionate woman, and I too bloody naïve to recognize the arguments as the blackness they were. We were in the car, returning from an evening out.

"I don't recall what set her off. It could have been anything, really. But it turned into a shouting match, me driving, her screaming. I turned my head to look at her, and that's the last I remember of it." He swallows thickly, his fingers tightening on hers.

Emma scoots closer, leaning into him and wrapping her arms around him. He shudders at her touch, but his breathing slows. He's quiet for a long while, and Emma doesn't say a word, doesn't need to. She knows he's lost in the memories, can hear it in his faraway tone. There's more, she knows, and it's bound to be the worst of it.

"I don't remember the crash. I woke in the hospital, no bloody hand and plenty of questions. The best they can sort it, my hand was crushed in the dash and I struggled to free it…to get to her. The paramedics said they found me, reaching for her but out bloody cold in a ruin of shattered glass and blood, my hand half torn from the wreckage. They said they could have saved it, had I not struggled so." He laughs, a bitter, deeply painful laugh. "She died on impact. All for naught."

"You survived." Emma doesn't offer him her sympathy or her pity. She wouldn't want it – she _won't_ want it, when it's her turn to peel back the paint.

"I've often wished I hadn't." He says it simply, a pure statement of fact and nothing more. But it stings, because he isn't exaggerating and she _knows_ this place. It's a place it took her years to crawl out of, and years more to resist the urge to revisit.

She still fails, sometimes.

Her hand drops to his arm, to the scars. She traces one of the lines along his forearm delicately, barely grazing the skin. He stiffens at first, his eyes darting to hers filled with pain and questions, but he relaxes when she does nothing more than touch him, ever so gently. He hasn't gotten to putting the prosthetic hand on yet (she's not even sure if he has it here with him) and there's a vulnerability to him, the sense of a lost little boy who doesn't know what it is to be touched with kindness, without judgment.

"How long ago was it?" The scars are still pink, mostly, fresh. It's only the fine lines that reach for his shoulder than have gone white. Emma isn't a doctor, but she would guess it hasn't been that long since it happened.

"Eighteen months next week." He shrugs, not meeting her eye. "I remained at first, but in the end, I couldn't stay. I traveled, some. There was a lawsuit, so funding was not an issue."

"How did you end up here?" Emma files the lawsuit comment away for future reference. A lawsuit with a settlement means what she's been suspecting since he started telling her this story – the accident wasn't his fault.

"She mentioned this town, once." His eyes flicker to Emma's, hesitant. "It seemed fitting, to be here, at least for a time. Red offered me the job after a rather long night of intoxication in her establishment. And then I met you." The list bit is soft, almost whispered. "And I couldn't leave."

She tilts her head up, drawing him down for a kiss. "I'm glad you stayed."

He doesn't reply, just kisses her again, his arm snaking around her waist and holding her close. He doesn't release her when they break apart, burying his face in her hair and just breathing her in. The air is thick with the emotion of the morning, his despair and sadness and pain, but there's something else, something soft between them that's working its way into Emma's heart, curling up there and getting comfortable.

She strokes her fingers down the back of his head and neck, offering what comfort she can. She doesn't speak, not that words would even matter in a moment like this. He's raw in her arms, exposed, and he needs this time, this quiet, to put himself back together after reaching into a painful past.

Emma knows that all too well.

There are still questions. Why did he take it so badly when she didn't want to tell Ruby right away about them? Why didn't he _say_ something if it bothered him so much? There's more to the story with the woman he was with in the car crash, he's all but admitted as much – what is it? He said he met her when he was young, but Emma would guess they're about the same age. Just how long was he with her?

She's jealous of a ghost.

He pulls away from her eventually, scrubbing his hand over his face and meeting her with a weary expression. "Shall we get some breakfast, then?"

"Sure, just let me shower."

It's awkward, getting prepared for her day with him there. She doesn't want it to be – she wants him to just seamlessly fit into her life, but they're not there yet. She gets dressed in the bathroom, because he hasn't actually seen her naked, and it somehow doesn't feel right to get dressed in front of him.

The morning is too dark, too heavy with old hurts, to even think about trying to pull him into bed.

Emma drops off her keys at the hardware store before they settle into a booth at Granny's, drawing more than one curious stare. Emma ignores them, smiling at Ruby's grandmother and ordering her usual pile of pancakes and bacon.

Killian grins at her. "Planning to work up an appetite?"

It's something he would have said to her, _before_. Before she tried to hide their relationship, before she ordered him out of his motel room, before he told her about the accident and the woman she suspects hurt him long before that crash. To hear it now, to see the teasing tilt of his smile, the arch of his eyebrow, it settles her.

"Perhaps." She waits for Granny to walk away, her expression shifting. "So, we'll pick up the keys after this, then swing by Gold's. Do you have your keys?"

"Hmm?"

"Car keys. Do you have them with you?"

"Ah…no." He sips his coffee, avoiding her eyes and staring down at the table. "No need. Haven't got a car."

"But…" Emma's baffled, quickly doing the math in her head. It's not a huge town, and she's walked down to the shore before, but it's a good distance from the bar to the motel, not to mention her apartment. "You _walked_ to my place in the middle of the night?"

"Aye, I did." He shrugs, his glance drifting out the window. "I haven't been much for driving since…"

"Oh." Emma feels like an idiot as she says it, hastily reaching for her mug of coffee to give her an excuse to not speak for a few more moments. She remembers the tense car ride back to her apartment the night Ruby expelled her for drinking too much – she had chalked it up to her bad behavior, but now that she really thinks about it, he was much more tense than angry.

"Ruby drives me, a good amount of the time. But I like to walk, too. Clears my head."

"I get that." She takes a deep breath, reaching across the table and laying her hand on his. "Maybe we can work on that. It's awfully cold here in the winter. It hasn't even gotten bad yet."

"So I've gathered." He turns his hand over, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. "It's all right, Swan. You haven't got to fix all of me in one go."

It's gently said, but it stings nonetheless. She tries to pull her hand away, but he only holds tighter. "I didn't mean…"

"I know," he says. And he means it, because the tension between them fades, and they settle into their breakfast with a good helping of their former camaraderie.

They spend the day together, gathering the few left behind items in his room and settling him into her apartment. He teases her about her boot collection (really, it's becoming a problem, not that she'll admit it) and her old lady quilts, but it's light and she stops plenty of times to shut him up with a kiss.

It's a technique she learned from him, after all, following their expedition to the supermarket a few towns over. Emma's previous grocery shopping trip had only herself in mind – it's not going to be enough for the two of them.

She also never considered buying things like Cap'n Crunch, but discovers its importance to Killian with much amusement in the middle of the cereal aisle. "That stuff is made for kids," she tells him, her lips twitching with a smile. "It's basically sugar. Weirdly colored sugar."

"Delicious sugar."

"Are you going to keep the prize in the box?"

"Why, did you want it?"

"You're unbelievable."

"So I'll be getting the prize, then."

"Sure. I'll just go ahead and get some grown up cereal." Emma rolls her eyes, and starts walking away, only to have him catch her wrist and pull her back for a kiss.

"What was that for?" she asks as he releases her, her cheeks pink. Emma isn't the sort to partake in grocery store make out sessions, but she couldn't imagine pushing him away.

"Distraction." He winks, tossing another cereal box in the cart, cartoon characters staring up at her.

"Fruity Pebbles?"

"I'll kiss you again."

"That's not very much…" He cuts her off with another kiss, his hand sliding down her back to pull her hips against his. It's only the sound of a much-perturbed throat being cleared that separates them, and this time, Emma's gone bright red.

Killian just looks pleased with himself.

Emma remembers that look as she stands at the stove, making herself tea and staring at the line of cereal boxes on the counter. Cap'n Crunch, Fruity Pebbles, and Special K, all in a neat row. It makes her smile all over again.

She drops him off at the bar that night, struggling to conceal her disappointment that he's got to work. They've had such a nice day together after the morning's tense start, and all she wants is to spend the night together. With him working, it's likely she'll be asleep by the time he comes home.

"If Ruby can't drop you off tonight, please call me. It's supposed to be really cold," she warns as he gets out of the car, grabbing his hand and squeezing. "Too cold to walk."

"Yes, dear." He's mocking her, but his eyes are bright blue as he's doing it, and he's grinning that carefree grin she loves so much. He bends to kiss her once more, a kiss filled with promise that leaves her staring after him long after he's gone inside.

* * *

><p>A little bit of lightness does us all some good, yeah?<p>

I am just blown away by the reviews you guys are leaving. Seriously, THANK YOU. It makes it much easier to bear news like IT'S GOING TO SNOW FOR FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT. New England girl through and through here, but man, I am ov-ah it. (I know none of you are sad. I know you know that 4 days stuck in the house = writing. It's okay. I'd be psyched too.)


	13. Chapter 13

She doesn't mean to wait up for him. She plans to go to bed, just with the volume all the way up on her phone in case he calls, in case he needs her. Emma isn't that woman, the one who waits around for a man.

She tells herself she'll go to bed soon.

When she's done cleaning the kitchen. There's a few dishes in need of washing, and perhaps she should take the recycling out.

When she's done running the vacuum. Really, she hasn't done it in a shameful amount of time, and there's someone else living here now.

When the laundry is finished. Because she has to stay on top of clean clothes now. She no longer lives alone, can no longer get away with a spray bottle of Febreeze when she can't be bothered to wash an already worn shirt or pair of jeans.

When she finishes reading the last chapter of the book she's been working on during her night shifts. She really enjoys this book, really wants to see how it ends.

Killian finds her asleep on the couch, one hand hanging off with the book on the floor. The TV is on, the blue glue of the Weather Channel reading off the local forecast (_damn _cold) to the tune of electronic classical music. He shakes his head at the sight, but he's smiling, ever so slightly in spite of the tinge of sadness the scene brings him.

_(It's the same everywhere.)_

He's not sure how he ended up here, with this woman, in this apartment. He didn't say anything to Ruby about the events of the last twenty-four hours until it came time to leave, and only then, it was a request to be dropped at Emma's instead of the motel with no further explanation given.

Class act that she is, Red didn't say a word to him about it. She didn't have to – her face said it all. A mixture of excitement and worry that isn't hard to figure out. She likes him, he knows that. She gave him a job when he least deserved one, and she's been a good friend along the way. But Emma is her _best_ friend, and she knows secrets Killian doesn't.

She's worried he'll hurt her friend. He doesn't blame her. He's worried, too. Emma is strong in many ways, but he isn't stupid. Her heart is still fragile. If she opens it to him, he's going to have to remember that, take care to protect her.

There are still secrets between them, and he's positive they're not small. He knows his aren't. He only hopes that Emma can overlook his mistakes – he knows he would overlook just about any error the lass has made in her past.

He knows he could fall in love with her, if he lets himself. He might be half in love with her already, for all the good it does him. His life is a bloody mess – a woman like Emma deserves better. She deserves men who propose on seaside decks with candles and flowers, not a one-handed bartender who still finds the idea of operating a vehicle nauseating, who wakes in the nights sweating with agonizing pain over a limb that isn't there.

But it's hard to worry tonight, watching Emma sleep in the blue glow of the TV. He's been moving silently through the (curiously clean) apartment since he arrived, and in spite of knowing she sleeps lightly, she hasn't stirred. Her blonde hair is a tangle around her face, eyelashes brushing her cheeks, and she looks so beautiful it's a struggle not to wake her, not to kiss her.

Not to try to show her how grateful he is for this chance she's taking on him, for the sheer will it took for her to barrel into his room at the motel and order him out. He's still amazed she did it – a woman has never surprised him so thoroughly before. Emma fancies herself damaged goods, but he wishes she could see herself the way he sees her: strong, determined and fearless.

Except those bloody nightmares.

He scowls at the thought, glancing at the TV on its endless loop. Going to bed without her doesn't seem right, but he doesn't want to wake her either, not when she seems to be in a deep sleep. It's a rare thing for people like them, to sleep like that, and who is he to disturb her?

It takes a few more minutes to make a decision, to reach for the remote and shut off the TV, the apartment suddenly very quiet without the background noise of the current temperature. Emma stirs as he approaches, blinking up at him.

"You didn't walk, did you? I was going to come get you…" The words are slurred together with sleep, and it's clear she's struggling to keep her eyes fully open, but still, her first concern is for him.

"Ruby dropped me," he says quietly, bending and looping an arm around her shoulders. It's trickier to get his other arm under her legs with the inflexible hand, but he manages, lifting her easily once he's got the balance worked out.

Emma's head falls to his shoulder, her arm slung around his neck to hold herself close. "Good," she mumbles into his chest. He closes his eyes in a brief moment of thanks, because even though she told him it was okay to have Ruby bring him home, even though she _says_ she's told her friend they're together, he didn't entirely believe her. It's a new sensation, this warmth pooling in his belly, that a woman like Emma wants people to know she's _his_.

He sets her down on the bed, his eyes lingering on her jeans. "You should change, love."

"Mpmh," is all he gets out of her. Emma is somewhere between waking and sleeping, the haze of exhaustion hard to shake. She's warm and he's there, and all she wants is for him to get under the blankets with her. She can't be bothered to change, so she simply unbuttons her jeans and kicks them off before getting under the quilt.

Killian should be a better man, should look away, but he can't. Her legs are pale in the dark room, long and lean. There's barely a scrap of lace covering the rest of her, her shirt riding up to reveal her flat stomach and curved hip.

It's enough to make _his_ jeans a might bit uncomfortable.

With a sigh of regret, he makes his way to his side of the bed. It seems strange to think of it that way, that he has a _side_ of her bed, but he does. She moved her books and phone charger to the other nightstand while he was at the bar, leaving a clean slate waiting for him.

It's a stranger thing to feel emotional over, but it gives him pause. It's just another of the little things she's done to make room for him in her life, to give him a place in her world to go along with the closet space and the sugary cereals on the kitchen counter.

A place he still isn't sure he deserves.

"C'mere…" Emma's plea is lost in the muffle of the pillow, and he grins in spite of himself. She's adorable like this, sleepy and unguarded, and it slams into him that this is something he might be able to get used to, to count on coming home to.

For the first time in a long time, he's thinking about the future.

He makes quick work of his clothes, swapping his jeans out for the softer, looser pants he usually wears to bed, leaving the prosthetic hand on the nightstand and sliding into the warm sheets that smell so deliciously of Emma.

She nuzzles up to him as soon as his head hits the pillow, the heat of her sleep-warmed skin pleasant. She kisses his chest as she curls up, throwing one leg over his and tucking herself close.

He's a lucky man, all right…with dwindling self-control.

It starts innocently enough, his fingers trailing over her shoulder and down her back. He stops at her waist, at least the first time, but the curve of her bottom is right there, and it's too tempting to let his hand settle there, press her just a little bit closer with a handful of soft skin at his fingertips.

Emma's fingers slide from his waist to his hip, caressing as she goes until she finds the waist of his pants. He expects her to stop, to start another tortuous route of the circle she's been tracing over his skin, but her hand slides beneath his pants, and then she's touching him and he can't stop the groan that spills from his lips.

She's kissing his chest and neck now, her hand moving slowly over him, the sweetest form of torture as she applies just enough pressure to make it good, but not _enough_ for how badly he's wanting.

He curses as her thumb hit a particularly sensitive spot, pushing her back into the pillows and bringing his lips to hers. It's a particular kind of agony to know he only has the one hand now, now when he wants to touch her everywhere, but the thought is lost as Emma kisses him back with unrestrained lust.

She's soft and warm, and still sleepy, all of her touches almost lazy as she strokes him, but there's no question that she's waking up, and that she knows _exactly_ what she's doing. He can feel her lips curve into a smile when he makes a noise halfway to a groan, his breath hissing through his lips.

"You…must…stop…that," he manages to gasp out, reluctantly pulling away from her. "Otherwise we'll never get anywhere."

Emma laughs, a mischievous, delighted laugh that gets lost in another kiss. She listens though, one hand in his hair and the other on his hip, pulling him closer even as her hips press up into his.

He could kiss her for hours.

At least, he thinks he could. Maybe. Maybe not. Because right now, what he needs is to be inside of her, or he might explode. The wait, the false start, the turmoil between them, it's been enough to make a man lose his head.

He breaks the kiss, pulling back long enough to slide his hands under Emma's shirt and pull it off her. The light from the street bathes her skin in a nearly orange glow, but it may as well be moonlight as far as Killian is concerned.

He's staring, wondering how he got so lucky, how his life has ended up here after everything else he's been through, when Emma shifts, her arms reaching behind her back to unsnap her bra and let the straps fall down her shoulders before tossing it aside.

That gets his attention.

Emma cries out as his lips descend on her, working the tender flesh even as his hand slips lower. He wishes he had more time, that he could draw this out, play her body like a fiddle, but he's never wanted a woman like this before.

The teasing swipe of his fingers beneath the lace left covering her reveals he's not alone in his desperation. He nearly shudders with anticipation of sinking into that slick heat, of feeling her body beneath his.

It's not long then, a rush of almost savage kisses. He isn't really sure what happens to that bit of lace, whether he rips it or Emma manages to get it off, but his pants are gone and then he's sliding into her, struggling to keep his eyes open as the pleasure floods through his veins.

Emma's nails dig into his skin, a low moan falling from her lips as they move together. Her eyes are closed, back arched as her hair spills over the pillows. Killian drinks in the sight, watches her like this as long as he possibly can, because _this_ is something he never wants to forget.

Mere minutes later it's over, but there's no question he's done his job properly. Emma is boneless in his arms, practically humming with contentment, her fingers stroking the damp hair along the back of his neck as he leans his forehead against the pillow, struggling to catch his breath.

Emma kisses his shoulder, another of those soft, content noises he's already becoming addicted to escaping her. He doesn't move right away, luxuriating in the gentleness of her touch in spite of the fact that his arms are burning with the effort of holding himself above her.

When he starts to feel a tremble in the muscle, he finally gives in, rolling to Emma's side, but pulling her right along with him. She curls into his chest, and there's something about their naked flesh pressed together that just makes it that much better, that much more _real_.

"You told me once you slept naked," she mumbles into his chest, her fingers curled possessively around his bare hip beneath the sheets. "You should start doing that, now that you live here. All the time."

"I don't recall using such language," he teases, bending his neck to press a kiss to her hair. "But if the lady insists."

"She does." Emma stretches up, her lips pressing to his in a sweet kiss before settling back against him. "I'm glad you're here."

"Aye, me too," he whispers, and it's the last thing either of them hears before sleep takes them under.

* * *

><p>Everybody still with me?<p>

Excellent.


	14. Chapter 14

It's mid-morning by the time Emma wakes, content and warm and still wrapped in Killian's arms. It's chilly in the bedroom, and she buries her shoulders under the blankets to ward off the cold while mumbling an incoherent jumble of words that may have been _good morning_.

Killian chuckles, a low noise Emma can feel in his chest. His hand slides down her back, cupping her backside and giving it a playful squeeze. "Indeed," he says quietly, his hand sliding up her back once more to tangle in her hair.

He's been awake for some time, listening to Emma's evening breathing and luxuriating in the bare skin and beautiful woman pressed to his side. It's been a struggle to keep still, snippets of their evening running through his mind on a loop.

He truly doesn't know which he wants more – to just hold her, to know that she's becoming a piece of him…or to wake her fully, entice her into another round, because now that he's had her, once will never be enough.

It's likely that he's _never_ going to get enough.

"Do you have to work today, love?" he asks softly, loathe to break the quietness of the morning.

"Mmm, no. David usually gives whoever gets stuck with night shift two days off after. You?" She's trying not to sound too hopeful, but all she wants is to spend the day in bed with this man, to not leave the sanctuary of this apartment. There's still so much unsaid between them, but she wants this day, this one day, to just be happy.

Killian grins at hearing the note of longing in her voice, his arm falling to her waist and tugging her closer. "I do not."

"Perfect." It takes little more than a nudge on his part, and Emma's body is sprawled across his, all warm skin and bottomless green eyes looking up at him. She traces a path down his chest, her touch light, but she never looks away. "Whatever will we do with ourselves all day?" Her tone is filled with innocence, but she's circling one of his nipples as she says it, dragging her nail just enough to send a jolt of sensation through him.

"An excellent question, that."

Emma grins in response, stretching forward to press her lips to his. The kiss intensifies quickly, and she isn't surprised when his hand settles on her ass, pressing her hips into his. If she moves just right, he'll slide right into her, but Emma isn't ready for it to be over yet. She was half asleep last night when they started, and she wants to enjoy every sensation, from start to finish.

She drags her nails down the sides of his ribs, lightly enough that goosebumps rise in her path as she sinks down her body, kissing and nipping at the exposed skin. There's scars here and there along his chest, some likely from the accident, but others with stories she hasn't heard yet. Emma wants to know, one day, where each and every ding and dent came from along the way.

But today she just wants to kiss him. She wants to hear the way his gasp turns into a groan of pleasure as her lips wrap around him, feel the tightening of the muscle in his thighs as she winds him tighter and tighter. It's a rush to have this power over him (though she's not even bothering to pretend he doesn't wield the same over her).

She can feel his fingers tightening in her hair, the way his grip becomes almost too tight for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to relax, his fingers going slack against her cheek before the process starts all over again.

He tries to flip them over, to press her into the mattress as she pulls back, knowing she's left him with his toes at the edge but unable to jump. His breathing is ragged, his eyes impossibly blue as she presses lightly on his shoulders to keep him where he is. He's about to protest, she can feel it in the way his grip tightens on her hip, but she ignores him.

It's her turn.

"Bloody…hell…" It's a curse and a moan all wrapped in one as Emma sinks her body onto his, hands resting on his shoulders for balance. It's an exercise in self-control not to end it for them both right there, but he manages, closing his eyes before the sight of her bare body and tousled hair moving over him does him in.

But it doesn't stop him from touching her, from running his hand along the curve of her hip and her waist. He needs her closer, to feel more of her, and she cries out as he sits up, changing the angle and making it just that much more intense as his mouth descends on her breasts.

Emma tries to draw it out, because of all the men she's been with, it's just _never_ been like this. She hasn't told him her secrets, but it's almost like she doesn't have to – Killian just _sees_ her – he sees beauty in the pieces that she's cobbled together. He sees beauty, and he still looks at her with his eyes on fire with lust, and he still makes that noise he's making now, a strangled curse that he can't even get out because he's so lost in her body.

She comes apart in his arms, her entire body tensing with pleasure before she is struggling to keep herself upright, lost in a haze of it. It's only then he has his way, rolling her onto her back and plunging into her with deep, hard strokes that send Emma off the edge a second time as he cries out her name and buries his face in her hair, panting as his body goes boneless.

"You definitely always sleep naked," Emma whispers in his ear, happy and content and well-sated. "Always."

He chuckles, rolling to his side and leaning to kiss her, his thumb sliding along her cheek. "Of course, love. As do you."

"We may need more blankets in the winter."

"Is that a challenge?" He raises an eyebrow at her, a smirk appearing. "Seems to be a challenge."

"If I say yes?"

"Are you cold now?"

She pauses, just long enough that he knows the answer before her expression lights up with mischief. "Yes, I'm freezing." She even adds a shiver, or a poor imitation of one. "Blanket?"

He doesn't answer, instead pressing another kiss to her mouth. One kiss turns to more, and they're both sweating by the time they're through, struggling to catch their breath.

"I suppose that will do, too," Emma teases, running her fingers through his damp hair. She's deliciously sore, but it doesn't stop her from pressing close to him, from feeling his body along the length of hers. "Though I'll probably need to make do with a coat and gloves when we go out."

"Do you require a trip outside this apartment today?"

Emma shakes her head with a grin. "Nope."

"Then there shall be no coat and no gloves. Perhaps no clothes at all, hmm?"

"Perhaps." She kisses him once more, pulling back slightly. "Though, there will be breakfast. I'm starving."

"Me too," he replies, but the look in his eyes doesn't have anything to do with food, and she knows it.

"Insatiable."

"Only for you." He releases her reluctantly, admiring the view as she gets out of bed and stretches to reach the shirt hanging on the closet door. The realization that it's his shirt is deeply satisfying as he watches her do up two or three of the buttons, leaving plenty of her skin on display. "Would you like some help?"

"It's a tiny kitchen, but sure."

He's more in the way than a help, but Emma doesn't mind. It's nice to have him there, to lean back into his chest as she flips bacon, to feel his fingers slide under the shirt and over her waist. He can't stop touching her, whether it's an innocent caress or a more intentioned touch, and Emma finds she rather likes it. Usually she's not like this – she doesn't like to be touched, constantly.

But Killian isn't like the others. She doesn't feel like he's invading her space, or like he's trying to somehow assert ownership of her. He just wants to be near her, to breathe her in, the same way she doesn't even want the scent of his skin to leave hers.

And it won't, at least not today. Emma drags some quilts into the living room, and they curl up together, barely dressed, but warm and snug as they watch movies and explore each other. They nod off in the late afternoon, a tangle of contented limbs on the sofa, and Emma wakes to a dark apartment, the TV screen gone black.

Her phone buzzes on the floor next to them, and she grabs it, wondering if that was the noise that woke her in the first place. Killian's awake now too, but reluctant to admit it, burrowed into the quilts with her as he is.

There's a series of messages from David that started hours ago, and Emma frowns as she scrolls through them.

_I talked to Ruby. Call me. _

_Emma, c'mon. You need to talk to me about this. You don't know anything about this guy, and now he lives with you? _

_Where are you? This isn't funny. Call me back. _

_I'm getting worried. This isn't like you not to answer. If he hurt you, he's going to pay for it._

_Mary Margaret says I'm overreacting. Maybe I am. Could you just call a guy? _

The last message is time stamped from two minutes ago, and Emma sighs, shaking her head. The last thing she feels like doing right now is calling David back, but she's already learned the hard way how he can be when he's convinced himself she's in harm's way.

But hell if she's moving from her comfortable spot on the couch as she does it.

"I have to call my brother back," she explains to Killian, kissing him lightly. "He's got himself all worked up over nothing."

"Over me." Killian, perceptive as always, reads her like a book. She sees it then, the flicker of doubt and insecurity, before the sleepy expression begins to harden. "I can just…"

"You can just stay right where you are." Emma puts the phone down, her palm against his bearded jaw and her eyes locked onto his. There's fierce determination in her eyes, and for just a moment, he sees the lioness in her, the protective instinct and the _fight_. "You're _staying_."

He nods, unable to form words to adequately express the rush of emotions her declaration brings on. He's not sure when he's going to be able to fully believe her, to not second guess it, but he hopes it's soon.

Emma watches him for another long moment before reclaiming her phone and pressing send.

David answers right away, and launches into a lecture. Emma is only half-listening to him as he rants and raves, Killian's fingers twisting through her hair. She knows David will calm down in his own time, and that a majority of his current problem is not being able to get a response from her for hours. He's right. It's not like her to not respond right away.

So when he finally stops, when he finally realizes he's being going for a good, long while without pausing to let Emma speak, she takes the opportunity she needs. "I'm happy, David," is all she says, Killian's hand stilling in her hair as she says it. "I'm happy and that's all you need to know right now."

And just like that, David deflates. He sounds embarrassed by the time they hang up, and Emma can hear Mary Margaret's _I told you_ in the background as she sets down her phone.

Killian is staring at her, a curious expression on his face of awe and lust.

"What?" Emma can't help but ask, smoothing her hair back self-consciously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You're a bloody marvel," he whispers, pulling her back down to him.

Emma doesn't have any more questions that night.

* * *

><p>Tried to post this hours ago but ff had other ideas! Hopefully that's the end of that...<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

It should be harder for them to fit, two people who barely know each other, but Emma's shocked by just how hard it _isn't_. It's always been a struggle to meet men halfway, to hide enough of her crazy to keep them around, but none of those rules apply with Killian.

He's already seen her at her worst – drunk, _mean_, self-destructive, screaming in terror in the middle of the night over memories more than a decade old – and he wants her anyway.

His _want_ for her never seems to be quite satisfied, in fact.

Emma smiles to herself at the thought, gazing out the window rather than at David lest her expression give her away. There is not a lack of wanting going on these days between her and Killian, not at all. There have been days she's barely made it through the door before he's had her pressed against it, and she's not complaining.

It's nice to be wanted so viscerally.

David has done his best to be happy for her, but it's still a point of tension between them. He asks questions Emma doesn't have the answers to. Where is Killian from? What did he do for a living before he ended up with Ruby? Does he plan to return to a practical job at any point soon? Where's his family? What exactly _does_ Emma know about this man she's invited into her home, into her bed?

Emma's told him none of that is important. She doesn't ask because she doesn't _care_. It doesn't matter to her where Killian grew up – she knows enough to know it's likely not one place, and even if it was, it never felt like home. She doesn't care what he did for work before Ruby, or when or if he plans to leave the Rabbit Hole for more gainful employment.

He makes her feel warm and safe and cherished, and _that_ is what is important to Emma. She isn't looking to get married and have kids and buy a big house. That's David's definition of success, and she's happy he's found it – but it's not hers.

Emma's biggest goal has just been to find a man she's capable of loving, a man who is capable of loving her exactly how she is.

Killian Jones just might be that man.

It's only been a few weeks, though. Emma hasn't told him any more of her secrets, and she hasn't asked about his. Will she still feel the same way when he knows everything? Will _he_?

Or will this fragile feeling that makes her heart speed up when he's around be crushed under the weight of their collective past?

She frowns at the thought, taking a swig of her coffee and glancing over at David. They're on their way to the shooting range to do an annual recertification class, but he hasn't said a word since they got in the car.

"Easy day at least, right?" She blurts out the first coherent sentence she can string together, the silence eating at her.

"Yeah, it will be nice." He smiles at her, but his smile is weak, and all it does is piss her off. She's trying here, and after all they've been through, she can't believe that _this_ is putting distance between them.

"What's your _problem_, David? Are you just not going to talk to me now? This is a little ridiculous, even for you."

"I'm just worried about you."

"Why? Because I'm actually happy? Because I actually feel like I'm part of something for the first time…"

"Since Neal." David cuts her off, and though his voice is gentle, the words cut through her like a knife. "I'm sorry, Em, I am. But the last time…"

"The last time I was a kid," she snaps back, resisting the urge to dump the coffee she's holding over his head. "This isn't the same."

"Isn't it though? New guy blows into town. You get in deep without knowing much about him. You tell me to stay out of it because you're happy. And then…" He doesn't finish his thought, letting the wash of memories do the job for him. "I've watched you hold yourself back for years with men, decent men. What's so different about this one?"

"He _gets_ me, David. I don't have to pretend with him, ever."

"So you've told him, then? About Neal and that last foster home? You've told him how you ended up living with me and Mom?" There's a challenge there, and it's one she just can't meet, so she remains silent, stewing.

David sighs, dropping his hand to her leg and squeezing lightly. "I just worry about you. I love you, and I don't want to see you hurt again."

"Did it ever occur to you that he might love me, too?" Emma snaps, the words out before she can shove them back in. Oh, how she wishes she could shove them back in. Killian hasn't said those words to her, and she hasn't said them to him, but there's been moments where it's felt like it's on the tip of his tongue, when he'll look at her in a way that makes her heart clench and her stomach flip.

There's been moments where the thought has occurred to her, only to be dismissed as a fantasy. She can't be in love with this man, not now. You don't just fall in love with someone in a few weeks.

Do you?

"You're in the love with him?" He asks the question softly, each word carefully chosen. They've arrived at the shooting range, but David hasn't turned off the engine yet, leaving the car idling in a parking space. "Emma?"

"I don't know."

"Has he said…"

"How did you know?" she cuts in, eyes full of fire and voice sharp enough to cut. "With Mary Margaret. Did you wait forty-five days on the nose to decide? Did that seem like the appropriate amount of time? Three months? I said he _might_, David. _Might!_ I _might_ be in love with him. I just don't know. And I can't even talk to you about it, because you're too busy making it about the past!" The words rush out in a torrent, and by the end, Emma's voice is breaking with the effort of keeping in the hot, angry tears threatening to spill over. "You don't even _know_ him."

"I've come to the Rabbit Hole with you…"

"Where you've either texted Mary Margaret the entire night or been as friendly as a block of ice. Look, I'm not the friendliest person in the world, but Killian has been trying and you just sit there! He knows you're important to me, so he's making an effort. He's making an effort in spite of the obvious dislike you have for him. Would it kill you to do the same? I don't know if I love him, but I _know_ he's important to me."

It's more than Emma has ever said to him about a man she's dated, and never once has she ever spoken about someone so vehemently. David nods, taking her hand and squeezing. "I didn't know he meant this much to you. I'll try harder. Promise."

"Good." She bites out the word, but she doesn't pull her hand away. She hates him a little bit right now, but David is still family, and somewhere beneath the doubts and the hurt, she knows he means it when he says he worries for her.

It's only after they've gotten back in the car to return to the station that she's calm enough to ask the question and be prepared for an answer.

"How _did_ you know?" Her voice is quiet, nearly a whisper, and David has to ask her to repeat herself. She looks down at her nails, chipping at a broken piece, and mumbles, "With Mary Margaret. How did you know?"

David sighs, leaning across the center console to wrap Emma in a hug before settling back in his seat. "It's different when you're that young, you know. But we'd gone to get ice cream, and it was summer, and we'd been together since that dance in the winter. Remember? Mom bought you that silver dress you refused to ask her for."

Emma smiles wryly at the memory. "I remember." It was the prettiest thing she'd ever worn in her life, and it had come to her with the tags still on it – fresh and new and shiny and _hers_. She'd cried when she'd walked into her room and seen it laid across the bedspread. It had been a struggle to put it on, to look in the mirror and almost like what she saw, but it had been a good night in the end.

"Anyway, it was bright, and sunny, and the ocean had that salt smell it gets on hot days. She was talking to me, but I couldn't focus on what she was saying, because I couldn't stop thinking about how lucky I was that she picked me, that she wanted to be with me." David glances at Emma, pushing the hair back out of her eyes. "I just knew." He says the last bit simply, a statement of fact.

"Did you tell her right away?"

He laughs at that, turning the key in the ignition and starting to back the car out of the spot. "Yeah, I told her. She wanted to know why I hadn't heard a word she'd said. So I just blurted it out."

"What did she say?"

"She slapped me."

"She _slapped_ you?" Emma stares at him in shock, unable to stop a small smile from forming. "How have I never heard this story?"

He grins. "Because you and Mary Margaret didn't always get along, and I knew if I told you she'd slapped me that you would go off and threaten her. Couldn't have that. Even then, you and Mary Margaret and Mom were the three most important women in the world to me. Besides, I deserved it."

"Teach you to listen to a woman when she's talking."

"Did you say something?" He dodges Emma's playful jab to his arm, leaning back and glancing at her again out of the corner of his eye as they make their way down the quiet streets. "If that's how you feel, you should tell him. All of it. If you're right, and he's not going anywhere, it will only bring you closer."

"I haven't even told you all of it."

"I know." David's smile turns sad as he pats her thigh, his eyes distant with memories Emma has relived in her nightmares more times than she can count. "But you should tell him."

Her thoughts are heavy the rest of the day, circling around and around. Should she tell Killian the whole story? If she tells him, will that result in him divulging the rest of his past, answer the questions she still has? It's not tit-for-tat; that's not what their relationship is, but it does only seem fair.

But what if he doesn't _want_ to talk about it? What if _he's_ not ready? What right does she have to push him into a corner by opening her Pandora's box of dark secrets up? Things are _good_ between them.

She finds him in the kitchen, shirtless in spite of the chill in the air. Winter is closing in with a vengeance – there's a chance it will snow tomorrow. She's wearing jeans with wool socks and knee-high boots, and four layers of shirts under her jacket.

Killian is barefoot and wearing the thin pants he used to sleep in. If it were possible for her to feel chilled looking at him, she would.

But Killian doesn't make her feel cold, far from it. He's humming to himself, pushing something around a pan on the stove. She loves coming home on days like this, where he's carefree and relaxed.

"Making dinner?" she asks as she comes up behind him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and peeking into the pan. "Smells good."

He twists his head, landing a lingering kiss on her mouth before turning back to the stove. "I've made a determination, Swan. A proper kitchen is perhaps the best part of living here."

She raises an eyebrow, reaching around him for a glass. "The kitchen, huh?" she asks as she fills the glass with water from the tap.

He chuckles, glancing up at her from beneath eyelashes that have no right being so long. His hair is falling into his eyes, making him look even younger. Emma leans her hip against the sink, watching him.

"Aye, the kitchen. But mostly the woman in it."

"Nice save."

"I'm making dinner?"

"Uh huh." She sets down the glass of water, leaning to press a kiss to his cheek. "Do I have time to shower?"

"Sure, love." He's already humming again as she heads for the bathroom, and Emma smiles to herself. He's in a good mood tonight, and while it's becoming more common, it's still rare enough that Emma savors it.

She's loathe to break the ease of the evening, but maybe it's better, tonight, when he's already relaxed for her to bring up the past. David is right. She needs to tell him, on her own terms, before she says something in her sleep she shouldn't.

And if he's going to leave, it's probably better he does it now, before she's in any deeper.

She just doesn't know how to bring it up. She fidgets through dinner, and even after, when they're curled together on the couch, she can't stop the restlessness.

"What's wrong, love?" He rubs his hand down her back, concern making his brows furrow. "Did something happen today?"

"No." She sighs, leaning into his shoulder. "Yes. I sort of had it out with David."

"Over me."

"No. Well, in a way, yes. But…" She presses her fingers to his lips, stopping the protest she can tell his coming. "_But_ it was mostly about me and him. He's worried about me."

"Because I'm not good enough," Killian spits out, his entire body tense beside her. She can feel where the softness in him has disappeared, all the muscle in his body gone rigid.

And it breaks her heart, because she knew it before, but she _knows _it now, how right David was. She has to tell him, because his ignorance in this moment is making him concoct the worst possible scenario and accept it as fact instantly.

"No." Emma tightens her grip on his shoulder, pulling his head down to hers to kiss him. "No, because of what happened when we were kids," she whispers, finding the words harder to get out than she'd originally imagined.

He turns to her, questions in his eyes, but he doesn't push, just takes her hand in his and laces their fingers together.

"David said I should tell you," she continues, her eyes fixed on their entwined hands. "And he's right, because…this thing with us…." She takes a deep breath, her eyes flickering to his before going back to their hands. "You make me _feel_ things, Killian. I didn't think I was capable of this anymore. But if we're going to…if we do this, you need to know all of it."

"All right, love." He kisses her hair, but he doesn't say anything else, doesn't press or push or do anything other than wait. "Whenever you're ready."

Emma doubts she'll ever _really_ be ready, but it's now or never. She takes a deep breath, fights the urge to tug her hand out of his and starts talking.

* * *

><p>Yeah, I know, cliffhangers are sort of awful, but it had to end somewhere! Next up, history time.<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

"I told you my parents gave me up as a baby. I don't know who they are or anything about them. They left me outside an ER in Boston when I was a few months old. So I guess that was better than a dumpster."

She laughs, a bitter short laugh.

"There were a lot of foster homes. It's hard to keep track of them all, but I guess you already know that." He nods, squeezing her hand in silent support. "Anyway, I bounced around a lot. I've never been easy to love, apparently."

Killian shifts, releasing her hand to run his thumb along her cheek. "I'd hardly agree."

It should soothe her, but it doesn't. She slides away from him, backing into the opposite corner of the couch and pulling her knees to her chest. "Sorry," she mutters, wrapping her arms around her legs. "I need to just get this out."

He nods, trying to understand. It's not a stretch – he remembers not wanting her to touch his arm, to see the scars that are all that remains of his hand.

It's still hard.

"I could tell you the stories about all the different places they sent me, but I don't think any of it would be new. Some were better than others. Some people wanted to help kids like me, angry and damaged, but they would get overwhelmed. Some people just desperately wanted a child, but what they really wanted was a little girl who would want her hair braided and to have tea parties. When they got me instead, they would never last long.

"And then there were the others. The people who took kids in purely for the government check, who fed us just enough to keep us alive, and ruled with fear. I didn't do so well in those places. I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut.

"I met David when I got put into another foster home that was in his school district. It was one of the worst ones. There were seven or eight of us, all crammed into bunk beds and cots in one room. School was the only escape. David got assigned to tutor me in algebra, and he became my only real friend, the only one who wasn't smiling at my face and whispering behind my back about my clothes and where I lived.

"I managed to keep my head down for those first few months, with school as an escape. Then a new boy came to live in the foster home. I was fourteen, he was fifteen. Neal was close to turning sixteen, which was the magic age to all of us. Sixteen was the age we told ourselves we could get out, petition the court for a legal status as an adult before we turned eighteen – it was a ticket out.

"David didn't like him, but we hadn't been friends long. I didn't trust his opinion. I just thought he was jealous, so I ignored his warnings. I fell for Neal, and I fell hard. We were inseparable, living together and struggling to survive in that house together.

"School let out for the summer, and I didn't see much of David. Our foster parents kept us busy, cleaning the house and painting the house and taking care of the yard. There was never a moment's peace from the chores. Earning our keep, they said. Any attempt to skip out on the day, to try to be a kid…that didn't really go over well."

"They hurt you." Killian's voice is sharp as a knife, the same barely concealed rage she remembers from that first night, the first time he figured out their shared past.

"Yeah." Emma squeezes her eyes shut against the burn of tears. She tries not to think about those days, the humiliation and pain and fear, but there's no way to tell this story without remembering. A shudder runs through her, and she can feel Killian shift beside her, but her eyes snap open before he touches her. "Please don't."

He nods, withdrawing his hand. She doesn't look at him, can't see the hurt in his expression or worse, the careful blankness she's seen from him when he's trying to hide his emotions in the past. It's not his fault – she knew he was going to react to this. It would be unnatural if he didn't.

It's just not easy.

"Anyway, by the end of the summer, I was losing it. Boston is hot in the summer, humid, and the air weighs on you, suffocating you. They didn't care. The endless chores didn't stop.

"Neal had the idea to steal water and sodas from the fridge, gulp them down before we could be discovered. We were told to clean out the garage that day, so it should have worked. Grab the drinks, chug it down, put the bottles out with the rest of the recycling.

"I stood watch while Neal went inside, and I was so relieved when he came back through the door, drinks in hand. The bottles were so cold they formed condensation instantly. All we usually got on those days was a bottle of water each when they sent us out in the morning, but I had finished mine hours ago. It was just so hot. I'd already gone inside to use the bathroom a few times, drinking from the faucet under the pretense of washing my hands, but that only worked for so long before I was sent back out with a stern warning to stop wasting time.

"You can probably guess what came next. We got caught. Neal said it was my idea, that I lied to him, said that I told him I was sent back out with the extra water for us to share. Our foster father…he was so angry…I think he was even angrier that it was _me_, that a girl disobeyed him. He had…opinions…about women, and they extended to his wife. She got it just as bad as we did, some days.

"I should have just stood there and taken it, but I ran. It only pissed him off more. I didn't stand a chance, dehydrated as I was, the day so hot. I only got halfway down the block before he caught me. Dragged me back to the house. Beat the hell out of me."

There's nothing she can do now about the tears pouring down her face, so she doesn't even try to stop them. Her words are getting stuck in her throat, making it harder and harder to get them all out. She doesn't look at Killian, _can't_ look at Killian. The rage on his face is too real, too much like that day, even though she knows it's not her he's angry at.

"He broke my arm. When school started the next week, they told the school the same lie they told the ER: I fell off my bike. As if I actually had a bike. The worst of the bruises were under my clothes, so either they just believed it or they couldn't prove anything else. I was too beaten down at that point to say anything different, but David…David lost it when he saw me. He knew I didn't have a bike, knew I was never allowed out of the house for anything besides school.

"I was terrified when he made me go home with him. His mom was a nurse, and it took a lot of convincing, but she's a patient woman. I let her examine me, eventually, knowing what she would find. Her horror was a relief in some ways, to have someone tell me I didn't deserve it, that it wasn't right.

"The whole story came out that night, about how it was living in that house, Neal, the water, the broken arm. I remember her, fighting with the police that night, and David…David was threatening to kill the guy, regardless of the cops telling him he had better settle down. But she won, eventually, and I never went back to that house. I heard they shut the whole thing down, moved all the kids. I never saw Neal again."

She stops talking, taking a shaky breath and leaning her forehead against her knees. She's rubbing her arm without realizing it, the memory of the pain, the sound the bone made as it snapped, and all her other wounds washing over her. The sting of Neal's betrayal, the way he lied to save himself, knowing what would happen to her…it hasn't lessened much over the last decade.

She loved him. He said he loved her. And then he threw her to the wolves. He didn't protect her, didn't even try to. She had lain on her cot, after, whimpering in pain and wanting to die, wishing even after his betrayal that he would come, sit beside her, hold her hand…and he never came.

It was the last time she fell in love with a man. Her eventual love for David, for his mother, it's not the same as the feelings she had for Neal…or the feelings she's starting to have for Killian. She hasn't _let_ herself fall in love.

"Anyway, that's my story. I fell in love with a boy who sold me out over a few bottles of water. I didn't fight back when I was beaten. I put David's mother through hell that first year. It took me a long time to trust her. It takes me a long time to trust anyone. I don't handle people leaving well. David was the only one I trusted for months, and even after that…"

The past leaves her feeling raw, exposed, and once the story is out, she doesn't know what else to say. Killian isn't talking either, but the glance she sneaks in his direction reveals a man fighting for control of his emotions. His jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid, and his hand is opening and closing slowly where it's resting on his thigh.

"Her name was Milah," he finally says, his hand stilling and his eyes turning toward hers, searching. "The woman I loved, her name was Milah. She was older. She was married. I knew she was married. I was with her anyway." He swallows thickly, his eyes dropping to the prosthetic hand. "I've wondered, many a time, if perhaps losing my hand as I did was punishment for the years I spent with her, hiding from her husband, wishing he were somehow out of the picture."

"Killian, you don't have to…."

"Aye, I do." He scrubs his hand over his face, taking a deep breath. "Might as well rip the bandage right off, shall we? Perhaps then we can only do this the once."

She nods, trying not to flinch at his obvious discomfort with the topic. It's not easy for her either, dredging up the past, telling him about it. She knows he's right – this isn't a topic they want to bring up time and again. It's too filled with hurt and tragedy.

"I lost my mother when I was a lad. My father never quite recovered from the shock of it, and the bottle took him before long. I had a brother, several years my senior, and he tried to make it work, just the two of us. I can't blame him for being overwhelmed with a boy of twelve at barely eighteen himself. Like you, I was not the easiest.

"He came home one day, sat me down, told me he loved me and then announced he'd joined up with the navy. He promised to stay in touch, and he did, for the most part. But I went into the system, same as you.

"I survived it, planned to join Liam in the service upon my eighteenth birthday. But before I had the chance, two officers showed up at the group home I was in, their dress blues a giveaway. Liam died, sent overseas to fight in the Middle East in that bloody pointless war.

"His death was the end of my intention to join up myself. There was a bit of money from a life insurance policy, and I spent the next several years burning through it. I drank myself into oblivion, never stayed in one place for more than a few months, and accepted the company of women I should not have.

"It was how I met Milah, in a bar that would have been better served by being named a slum. She wore no ring, and at first, it was a convenient dalliance. The rest of it came later, and I too stupid to recognize it for what it was until I was in far over my head.

"I've had quite a bit of time to consider my time with her, since the accident. I don't question I loved her, but it was a naïve love of a different man. What I now understand is that it was not love that kept her with me. I couldn't say exactly what it was, whether the thrill of pulling one over on her husband, or if there was something in me she truly enjoyed, but I don't believe it was love. I suspect a part of me knew that, even then."

He smiles, the bitter smile she hates so much and turns to face her. "There you have it. We've each made some choices in our pasts we rather we hadn't."

Emma nods, still tucked into the corner of the couch. She wants to go to him, wrap her arms around him, and let him make her forget. But she can't seem to make her body move, to unlock the death grip she has on her arms, holding herself tight.

"It's different, though, between us. I don't feel I'm making a mistake, being here with you." He pauses, his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. "I feel things for you, things another woman has never made me feel. You have a power over me, Emma Swan, which is both terrifying and exhilarating."

He stands, moving to her end of the sofa and kneeling down in front of her, putting them back on eye level. The blueness of his eyes shines in the darkness, intense and beseeching. "I'm falling in love with you, Emma. I could _be_ in love with you, should you choose to let me."

It's too much, and it's not enough. The tears come all over again, but Emma nods furiously, opening her arms to him and sobbing against his chest as he gathers her up, holds her close while she clings to him, holds her until she cries herself out and falls asleep in his arms.

It's only then that he says it, that he lets himself say aloud the words he knows are true. "I'm already in love with you," he whispers, running his fingers through her hair. "And I think you're in love with me, too."

* * *

><p>So... who had that one figured out?<p>

Side note: more effing snow in the forecast. This is getting old.


	17. Chapter 17

The bitterly cold snap gives way to snow the next night, and this time, Emma refuses to be asleep on the couch when Killian gets out of work. She doesn't want to take the chance he's going to walk home, not in this weather.

She isn't prepared for the look of wonder on his face when he walks out of the bar.

"Swan, it's snowing!" His eyes are wide with excitement, and though his gaze lingers on her, his attention is firmly on the flaky white bits falling almost lazily from the sky. It won't amount to much – it's not even forecasted to snow tonight – but he's looking around like Christmas has come early.

"It's Maine," she tells him, trying not to laugh. "Have you…is this your first snowfall?"

"Since I was a lad," he confirms, leaning back and letting the flakes fall across his face. They catch in his hair, his eyelashes and his beard, momentary specks of soft, white snow before they melt and disappear.

"I didn't know. I just assumed…" Emma trails off, watching him. His excitement is nearly contagious, and it should be, but all she can think about is how much she still doesn't know about him, in spite of their revealing conversation.

"I grew up mostly in South Carolina," he explains, and Emma doesn't interrupt, doesn't want to break the spell of the snow and his easy words. "My parents came over from Ireland when I was a wee thing, hence the accent."

"I would have never guessed."

He shrugs, turning back to her. "I made an effort to hold onto it, the accent, once they were gone. Seemed like the last bit of them I had left. Now it's just a part of me." He reaches for her, and it's still freezing, and the snow is sticking to her hair, making it damp, but she wouldn't rather be anywhere else tonight. Something about the night, whether the magic of the first snow, or just the ease of finally having things in the open between them, it's making him soft, open. Emma buries her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of sweat and liquor and _Killian_ all mixed up with the cold.

"Go home!" Ruby shouts at them as she comes out of the bar, turning to lock the door. "Don't you two realize it's snowing? And the middle of the night?"

"Hadn't noticed!" Emma shouts back, lifting her head to grin up at Killian without bothering to look over at her friend. His expression has shifted, amused and chagrined all at the same time.

She lifts her gloved hand to his face, pulling him down for a kiss before stepping back. "It's freezing. Let's go home."

He stares out the window the entire drive, short as it is, captivated by the snowfall. "Just wait until we get a blizzard," she teases, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. "You'll be tired of it by spring just like everyone else."

"Hardly." She looks at him for but a moment, a flicker of her eyes away from the road, but she sees it in those seconds, that intensity that tells her he's not talking about the snow, not at all.

It's a luxury to pull him into the apartment, to have him react to her complaint of cold and false innocence when she declares a hot shower is in order with the same glee he displayed for the snow, throwing her over his shoulder and heading straight for the bathroom. There's hardly room for both of them in the apartment's cramped shower, but Emma doesn't care.

She's plenty warm by the time they tumble into bed together. It's mere hours before she has to be at work, but it hardly matters when she's this happy. It doesn't matter there's still details of their lives they haven't shared, stories that still prickle if she allows herself to remember them – the worst of it is out in the open. It makes it easier than ever between them. She snuggles into Killian's arms, sleep coming quickly.

She's lighter, too. David comments on it as she strolls into the station in the morning, practically chipper in spite of the lack of sleep and barely two sips of coffee.

"You're in an awfully good mood," he says with a slightly suspicious stare at the two cups of coffee she's holding.

"Things are good." She hands him the coffee she's picked up on the way, her grin broadening. "Just take the coffee."

"You never buy me coffee."

"I buy coffee once in a while. If I remember. And I'm awake."

"Uh huh." David shakes his head at her, but he's grinning right along with her. "I'm happy you're happy."

"I took your advice. Told him about…" Emma pauses, glancing around the busy station. "Before. I told him about before."

"And he's still around."

"He is _definitely_ still around." It's a thrill to say it, to feel certain that Killian isn't actually going anywhere. She was terrified to wake up in the morning after crying herself out in his arms, terrified he would look at her like she was crazy, but he'd only pulled her closer, held her until their embrace turned from tender to something else entirely.

"Good. Makes my life easier." Emma isn't entirely sure he's joking as he lets his hand fall to the gun at his hip, but she rolls her eyes all the same.

"He's a good man, David. He said…" She flushes, because she isn't quite sure she wants to tell her brother this, but she needs him to understand that this is _real_, this thing between her and Killian, more so now than ever. She lowers her voice, then adds on, "He said he was falling in love with me."

She's waiting for the lecture, for the _kind of fast, isn't it _that she expects from David at the confession, but instead, he smiles, a soft smile usually reserved for when he's being particularly sentimental. "And you? You weren't sure the last time we talked."

She nods emphatically, her throat suddenly too tight to force out words. Emma isn't used to this, the rise of emotion that she hasn't really experienced in her adult life. She takes a sip of her coffee to stall, but David knows her, knows that sometimes, Emma doesn't have words when it comes to emotions, so he just wraps his arms around her and kisses her hair.

"I suppose I better get to know the guy, then." He sighs, a trifle dramatic, resulting in another roll of Emma's eyes.

"Be nice."

"I'm always nice." He dodges the smack Emma aims at his arm, holding up the hand not clutching his coffee in defeat. "How about dinner at our house? You haven't seen Mary Margaret in awhile."

She hesitates, because all of a sudden, it seems like a tremendous amount of pressure to bring Killian to David's, to expose him to the perfect relationship and sticky sweetness her sister in law brings out in David. The two of them make _her_ uncomfortable sometimes, and she's been around this for the majority of her life.

"Maybe we could start with you being nice at the Rabbit Hole? Work our way up to dinner?"

"Worried we'll embarrass you?"

"No." She frowns, glaring at him and his obvious amusement. "Yes! You two are… real people don't act like that, you know. Like some fairytale couple. Birds practically sing in her wake."

"Is he working tonight?"

"Yeah. I tried to leave the car with him so he could drive in, but he said he wants to walk in the snow." Emma pulls a face, her thoughts on the frigid weather plain. "He hasn't seen snow since he was a kid. He thinks it's great."

"It barely snowed last night. He'll be okay." David's looking at her like he's proud of her somehow, which just makes Emma uncomfortable with the entire conversation. She already feels like she's said too much.

She sighs, turning her back on her brother with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I've got work to do."

There's really not much she needs to do, but she manages to make herself look busy enough for David to drop the topic. It's a mostly quiet day, the biggest excitement coming when she responds to call that someone's hit a deer – the first of the season.

The deer turns out to be a rather obese raccoon.

Small town life.

She's strangely nervous as they walk into the bar after their shift. David's been in here with her a million times before, and he's been here plenty since she got involved with Killian. But it feels different now, now that he's not a thinly veiled ball of hostility intent on ignoring the man for the night.

Now that she's told him they're falling in _love_ with each other, that she's shared her secrets with someone else.

"Didn't know you were coming in tonight, love." Killian's entire face lights up on seeing her. Her worries disappear; she doesn't care half the town is in the bar, or that David is beside her. She leans over the bar, pressing a kiss to his mouth that's far too fast for either of their liking.

"I missed you," she whispers, but not quietly enough for David not to hear.

"You're just as bad as we are," he mutters in her ear as she settles into her seat. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Ruby overhears him as she spots them, crossing the bar to say hi. "Oh, you haven't seen anything," she tells David matter-of-factly. "She's worse when she's been drinking."

Emma can feel the flush creeping up her cheeks, but Killian looks too pleased to be truly upset. Begrudgingly, she has to admit it's nice to have her friends comfortable enough with Killian to tease her so openly.

"So, Emma says this is your first snowfall in a long time."

Killian looks surprised to be addressed, but there's no one else David could possibly be talking to. "Aye," he replies as he sets down Emma's beer and turns to David. "Nice to see it again, even if it's a mite cold. What'll you be having tonight?"

David shrugs, gesturing vaguely toward the beer Emma's taking a rather deep gulp of. "Whatever you gave her is fine."

Killian pours another mug, carefully balancing the glass while nudging the tap with the prosthetic hand. Emma forgets, sometimes, about his missing hand as she watches him move, graceful even one handed. She smiles at him when he looks up, and he grins back, lifting one eyebrow at David beside her. She only shrugs, mouthing _go with it_.

David looks up from his phone as Killian sets the beer down in front of him, pocketing the phone and glancing over at Emma. "My wife and I would like to have the two of you over for dinner tomorrow, if you're free."

"David!" Emma hisses, jabbing him sharply with her elbow. "We talked about this."

Killian is watching, his expression unreadable. Emma is about to jump in to explain, but David beats her to it, his grin so smug Emma wants to deck him. "Emma thinks we'll make you uncomfortable with all our couple behavior. Seems to me she has nothing to worry about."

"They're disgusting," she jumps in, willing Killian to say he's working or they've got plans, or anything other than _yes_. "Trust me."

Killian shrugs, leaning back against the counter behind the bar. Ruby is dealing with the few patrons in need of refills, so he takes the momentary respite where he can get it. He's struggling not to let his emotions show, a curious mix of amusement at Emma's obvious discomfort with whatever her brother is up to, and a nagging worry that there's some other reason Emma doesn't want him to become closer to her family.

"She's a little bit right." David laughs at Emma's expression, one mixed with horror and disbelief. "We'd like to have you anyway, if you can stand it."

Killian hesitates, his gaze lingering on Emma for a long moment. "Emma?" he finally asks, and it's the hope she hears, the tiny shred of it, that makes her cave.

She forgets, sometimes, that she got a second chance at family when she lost hers. Killian didn't. Perhaps she's taking for granted her brother and his doting wife, taking for granted that in spite of their teasing, she loves them and they love her.

"Of course we'll be there." She jabs David once more with her elbow for good measure, but her eyes are on Killian. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

David doesn't stay much longer, leaving Emma at the bar with Ruby and Killian. She knows she should go home – she's tired, and it's been a long day, but she doesn't want to leave Killian.

She can't help but feel like she's hit a nerve tonight with trying to get out of this family dinner.

She tells Ruby as much when Killian's gone into the back to change out a keg, a process sure to take him awhile. Ruby says he's too stubborn to ask for help, and so she just leaves him be.

Ruby glances over her shoulder, checking for the man before she replies. "He does seem a little quiet," she acknowledges, frowning in his direction. "You sure he's not just tired? You mentioned it was a late night."

"He had all morning to sleep."

Ruby smiles, a secretive smile that instantly has Emma asking questions. "It's nothing," her friend tells her, shaking her head. "He was just complaining when he came in that he didn't get much sleep since you had to work this morning."

"I don't get it."

Ruby laughs, shaking her head. "You two are adorable, you know that?"

"Ruby!"

"Seems to me he can't sleep without you."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Ruby's doing that thing she's so painfully good at, where she's figured Emma out before Emma has. "Is it so different for you?"

"I can sleep on my own," Emma grumbles, glaring into her nearly empty beer glass. The bar will be closing soon, and her day is catching up with her.

"Is that why you're here and not at home in bed?"

"It's cold. I don't want him walking."

"You know I'll drive him back to your place."

"Fine. I sleep better when he's there."

"Was that so hard?"

"I hate you."

"Love you, too, Blondie." Ruby ignores Emma's thoughts on the matter, though Emma is still cursing up a storm when Killian reappears.

"I can finish up," Ruby tells him, gesturing toward the still-fuming Emma. "She's tired and needs to go to bed and plainly won't leave without you. Go home."

"That's generous, lass, but I assure you I can handle my duties. Emma can go home whenever she pleases."

Ruby rolls her eyes at the two of them, grabbing Killian's shirt and giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the door. "I've never met two more stubborn people in my life. Go home. Both of you."

He's tense in the car, and Emma doesn't even know what to say to make it better. She's relieved, truth be told, to be going home now, because she _is_ tired. Her emotional confusion over the night's events aren't helping any, and she's not even sure she has the energy to discuss it. She just wants to curl up with him and go to sleep.

But Killian isn't having it.

She heads for the bedroom as they enter the apartment, stopping only to toss her coat over a chair. He heads for the kitchen. Emma can hear him from the bedroom, the slam of the cabinet doors and the rattle of dishes eventually prompting her to investigate.

"You coming to bed?" she asks, her hip against the wall. She's stripped down to her T-shirt and panties, but he barely gives her a second glance.

"In a bit. You go."

"Killian…"

"What is it?" He snaps the words at her, the tension radiating off him. "Bloody hell, Emma, you aren't the only who's had a trying day."

"Trying? What happened?"

He barks out a laugh, turning to fully face her with bright eyes. "You, lass. You happened."

"I don't…"

"Your bloody brother comes in tonight and invites us to his home, and you plainly want no part of it, in spite of the fact it's the first bloody time the man has been a trifle more than civil to me."

"I said we would…"

"Aye, after nearly being forced to it, you said we would go. But that couldn't be the end of it, no? Red's your friend and all, but she's also my employer and she sent me home tonight because of you. I've been many things, Emma, but dismissed from an employer is not among them."

"You're overreacting. She just sent you home because…"

"Because _you_ wished it. Because _you_ were waiting."

"What do you want me to say?" Emma is getting angry now. He's hurtling accusations at her, and maybe he has a point about David's dinner invitation, but she didn't ask Ruby to send him home. And it's not like he's been fired, or Ruby was upset – they were going to close in a half hour anyway.

"Nothing. I want you to say nothing." He turns away from her, resuming his task of assembling a grilled cheese. Emma stands in the doorway, silently fuming, but when he shows no signs of acknowledging her, she throws her hands up and stomps back to the bedroom.

She climbs into bed, determined to simply go to sleep without him, Ruby be damned – _Killian_ be damned. The day started out so well, but here they are. She can hear him, slamming things in the kitchen still, and it just makes her blood boil.

It's _her_ family. She's allowed to have an opinion on how things are with them. Ruby is _her_ friend. She's allowed to be honest.

Her temper fades as she tosses and turns, the bed cold and empty without him. It grows quiet in the apartment, the banging ceasing from the kitchen, but still, Emma can't sleep. She's exhausted, and frustrated, but still, sleep won't come. She's too hyper-aware of every noise, every step he takes.

When the shower turns on, she practically growls with frustration. He can't avoid her forever. And so help her, if he tries to sleep on the couch tonight, she's beginning to be of half a mind to just let him. Neither of them will get a damn bit of sleep, but it will serve him right.

She's still trying to convince herself of it when the water shuts off. The door creaks open, and then she's holding her breath, listening to his soft steps, slowing outside the bedroom door. He hesitates – she _hears_ him hesitate – but then the door opens.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, standing in the doorway with naught but the towel around his waist. "I can sleep on the couch, should you like." She doesn't answer right away, and he sighs, leaving the doorway to perch on the edge of mattress beside her. "I know you're awake, love."

"Of course I'm awake. I can't sleep without you," she grumbles. She's not even mad anymore, but she is confused. And tired. And frustrated.

"Aye, I know. It's the same for me."

"I didn't ask Ruby to let you go early."

"I know."

"Then why?"

He sighs, running his hand through his damp hair. "Lass, you've got family. They're not your blood, aye, but they're family. David, his wife, Red…they're important to you. It's not something I have, and perhaps, if you would allow it, I thought these people who are so important to you, perhaps I could have just a fraction of it. And when you were so quick to dismiss the first sign that your brother could allow me a place…"

"You have me," Emma cuts in, sitting up and reaching for her his. "You have me, Killian. I love you, I do, it's just that Mary Margaret and David…" It takes her a moment to realize she's said it, that the words have slipped out, and it's too late to take them back. "I mean, I…"

"I love you, too." He leans into her, kisses her, kisses her like a man drowning and she's air to breathe. It's with some difficulty he pulls away, breathing heavily and readjusting the towel at his waist.

"Where are you going?" Emma asks, breathless and propping herself up on her elbows.

"You're not still upset?"

"I was barely upset to start with. I was more worried about you being upset." Emma sighs, flopping back into the pillows. "Mary Margaret and David are basically the world's most perfect couple. I just thought it would be a lot of pressure, them and their perfect married life. I didn't want you to think that's what I expect from you."

"We're not them, love."

"No, we're not." She grins up at him, a hint of mischief sneaking into her eyes. "They don't fight."

"Isn't that a fortunate thing?"

Emma shakes her head slowly, sitting up once more. She reaches for him, but her hand lands on the towel. "No fights, no make up sex."

The towel falls to the floor with Emma's tug, and he's grinning back at her as she pulls the covers back for him to slip in beside her. "The lady has a point."

"Shut up and kiss me." Emma pulls him down, his body still warm from the shower and hers from the quilts. The night forgotten, she loses herself in him, his touch, his lips, the soft words he murmurs and the gaps he can't control.

And when it's over, when she's wrapped in his arms and finally drowsy, she hears him say it, reverent and quiet and nearly choked with emotion.

"I am so in love with you."

"Me too," she whispers against his chest right before sleep claims her.

* * *

><p>So this chapter got away from me, but I figured rather than try to find a place to cut it, I'd just post a long one since it's been a bit. Damn tax season in the financial services world!<p>

Side note: it's snowing. Again. #sendsummer


	18. Chapter 18

It's a struggle to leave her bed in the morning, Killian sleepy and cozy beside her. "Go back to sleep," she murmurs as she kisses his shoulder before sliding toward the edge of the bed.

His arm snakes out, snagging her around the waist and tugging her back so she tumbles against his chest. She can't help but laugh at his garbled plea, but she gets the gist of it by the way his hand rests possessively on her bottom.

"I'm going to be late."

"Mmph." He gives his handful of flesh a squeeze in protest. "Five more minutes."

"Uh huh," she answers, full of disbelief, but she doesn't bother trying to disentangle herself from his arms. At this point, she's already going to be late. Might as well enjoy it. With a smirk to herself, she presses a kiss to his chest, then another, then another.

"You wouldn't be starting something you can't finish, would you, Swan?" His voice is low, a rumble in his chest under her lips. Emma's smirk only broadens, her thigh sliding over his hips as she settles her weight more fully on top of him.

"Who says I can't finish?"

That gets his attention, his blue eyes popping open from their sleepy slits to stare lustily at her kissing a path down her naked chest. She stops just shy of where he's hoping she's going, her eyes bright green with mischief.

"Don't want to be late." She moves like she's getting out of bed, but she's grinning to herself as his arms surround her, easily flipping them over.

"You are nothing but trouble, lass." He bends to kiss her before she can protest, her arms winding around his shoulders as the kiss deepens. His thigh comes between her legs, nudging them apart so he can settle between them. "A great deal of trouble," he adds on as they break apart, but the words sound like they're a promise.

They are.

Emma is very late.

"Where have you been?" David demands as she blows into the station, hurriedly trying to put her curls into some semblance of order with her gloved fingers. His frown depends as he takes in her disheveled appearance. "You've got to be kidding me."

"What? It's windy today." She's all innocence and wide eyes as she returns his stare. "I forgot to set my alarm."

"You've woken up with the sun as long as I've known you."

She shrugs, unwinding her scarf and dropping it onto her desk. "People change."

"Uh huh."

Emma narrows her eyes at him, her jacket following her scarf. "Listen, David, I can say I forgot to set my alarm and it's windy. Or I can tell you the version Ruby gets, and that will just make us both uncomfortable. But, I mean, if that's what you really want…"

"Windy you say? Better make sure you bundle up when you come over for dinner tonight."

She grins back at him, triumphant. "That's what I thought."

"Just don't be late tonight. Mary Margaret is all excited you're bringing him over. She told me she's going to be cooking all afternoon."

"Want me to bring anything? Wine? Or something else I can buy in a store."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Wine is fine. I've got some beer at the house if Killian rather drink that."

Emma shrugs, because she honestly doesn't know if Killian even likes wine. It's never come up – and she's not telling David that she _knows_ he likes rum. That dented and dinged flask he's got isn't really an appropriate dinner accessory.

She adds it to her mental list of questions she'll get answers to, one day.

"You're going to be nice to him, right?" She frowns at the sudden suspicion, leaning against the edge of her desk. "This isn't really just you finding a way to play twenty-questions, right?"

"I'm a nice guy."

"I mean it, David." Her voice softens, her eyes almost pleading. "This means a lot to him, more than I really knew. He wants you guys to accept him. _I_ want you to accept him."

"Didn't you accuse me just yesterday of being a fairytale character? I'm not going to mess with him tonight. I just want to get to know the guy, honest." David holds up his hands in mock surrender, grinning at her. "Maybe just a few questions."

Emma throws up her hands, but she's smiling. Killian is right – she does have family. She has to just take it as it comes, whether David ends up embarrassing her or not.

It's not like when she was in college and he made a point of glaring at every guy who ever showed her the slightest amount of interest, his own friends included. Emma's a grown up (most days) – David will behave himself.

She hopes.

Though really, if he doesn't, his wife will keep him in line. Emma chuckles to herself as she flips open the file on her desk, thinking all the more fondly of her sister-in-law. Mary Margaret is one of the sweetest women she's met in her life, but all it takes is a certain tone of voice, a certain look in her eye, and David does her bidding, no questions asked.

Emma wonders if she'll ever have that, if she'll ever have a man in her life that will be so into her that all it takes is a look for him to understand what she wants. Will it be like that, with Killian? Will they ever be so in tune with each other that words aren't even needed?

Some days it feels like they might already be halfway there.

He's watching TV when she gets home, but that's not what catches her eye. No, it's the pair of jeans she's never seen before, with an equally surprising charcoal sweater. Emma's never seen him in anything other than his bar clothes or sleepwear (or nothing at all) and she pauses in the doorway to drag her eyes over him.

"How have I never seen this before?"

She expects a lewd comment, innuendo of some sort, but instead he gets to his feet, visibly nervous as he tugs on the sleeves. "I hadn't anything appropriate so I asked Red to give me a ride to the shops while you were at work. Will I do?"

"You went out and bought new clothes to go to dinner at my brother's?"

His cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink, his eyes falling to the carpet. "Should I not have?"

She shakes her head, but it's more out of sadness than anything. It tugs at her heart, these insecurities he's obviously been keeping tucked away. She wraps her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his mouth and lightly running her fingers over the soft material covering his chest. "You're perfect, no matter what you wear."

"That's lovely of you to say, but as you seem most content when I wear nothing at all…" His voice trails off suggestively, one eyebrow raised, and Emma laughs at his expression. It settles her, the return of his playfulness, and she kisses him once more before stepping away.

"Just you wait until we get home." She squeezes his hand, glancing at the clock. "I need to jump in the shower or we're going to be late." Her eyes roam over him appreciatively once more, her sigh one of longing. These jeans certainly fit him a great deal better than his usual black bar jeans, the denim clinging to his thighs.

"Love, you keep looking at me like that and we will never make it to dinner."

"Sounds tempting."

"Until I have to explain to your brother that we missed his invitation because I simply had to have you." Killian cocks an eyebrow at her, eyes dancing with mischief. "Not conducive to familial approval, that."

"I suppose you're right." She gives him one last lingering look before heading for the shower, her skin practically tingling with want. It's an exercise in self-control to get into the shower without further comment and to get herself ready for their evening when all she wants is to pull him into bed with her.

But that's not the only thing on her mind – Emma didn't miss that Ruby was the one to take him shopping. Ruby hates shopping, which has amused Emma to no end over the years since her friend loves clothes and shoes so much. But she took Killian today, knowing it was important to him.

One down, two to go, she thinks to herself as she puts the finishing touches on her makeup. She hadn't planned to get dressed up – it's just David and Mary Margaret – but Killian's gone to the effort. She hasn't gone overboard, clad in jeans and a sweater of her own, but the sweater hugs her curves and she's taken care to tame her curls into some semblance of order as they cascade down her back.

"Nearly finished?" he calls to her from the living room as she's zipping up her boots and rummaging in the closet for a scarf. She banished him from the bedroom when she got out of the shower, insisting he stay away so they could make it out of the apartment on time.

"Yep." The sound of her heels on the wooden floor makes him look up, and if a simple gaze could light her on fire, she would be a pile of ash.

"Wow." She's not even sure he's meant to say it out loud, but he's staring at her with a combination of lust and wonder that makes her blood heat up. "You look ravishing, love."

She smiles, reaching for her coat. "I guess this is what happens when you fall in love with the girl who drinks half a bottle of tequila on your first date."

"That was not a date," he protests, reaching for his own jacket even while his eyes still linger on her. He can't resist as she buttons up her coat, his hand gathering up a handful of the soft curls as he bends to kiss her. "We've never had a proper date."

"I guess we haven't." She frowns at the thought, staring up at him with a twinge of regret. "Does tonight count?"

He shakes his head, fussing with her scarf so it covers her more thoroughly. "Hardly, love. Your brother is not suitable date company." He leans closer, his voice lowering as he whispers in her ear, "Though there will definitely be a goodnight kiss in it for you."

"Just a kiss?" she teases as he pulls back, leaning to grab her keys from where she tossed them on the table.

He doesn't answer her right away, but when she turns back to him, his eyes have settled firmly on her legs. "We should go," he says abruptly, swinging the door open and ushering her out.

"In a hurry all of a sudden?"

He grins at her as they reach the door downstairs, a blast of cold air greeting them. "Bracing, isn't it? Just lovely."

Emma laughs, happily looping her arm through his for the short walk to her car. It's freezing tonight, and the car will barely be warm before their drive is over, but David's house is always toasty, the fireplace sure to be roaring.

"Ready?" she asks as they pull into the driveway, the lights shining cheerfully from the windows of the old colonial. It was a ramshackle mess when they bought it, Emma remembers, but David worked on it tirelessly the weeks before they moved in. He's kept at it in the years since, and now the house is beautiful. It's the sort of place Emma's only ever dreamed about, charming and welcoming and cozy in spite of its generous size.

It's a home, but it's not hers.

Killian is staring at the house with the same sort of longing she feels, but his expression shifts as he glances at her, a trace of nervousness in his smile. "Aye."

Emma doesn't bother knocking – she never has – calling out as they enter. She was right about the fire; the scent of wood smoke greeted them as soon as they got out of the car. The wind is rising, howling around the chimney, but inside, it's warm and smells amazing.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret appears first, her head popping around the corner from the kitchen. She beckons them with an oven mitt, disappearing back around the corner. "Come into the kitchen. I'm just pulling the chicken out."

"Just going to hang up our coats!" she calls back, turning back to Killian and nodding at the hooks beside the door. David and Mary Margaret's coats hang there already, boots lined up below in a neat row.

"Should I take off my shoes?" he asks, visibly nervous. He seems frozen in the doorway, his eyes lingering on the candles in the windows, the row of coats and shoes and photos on the walls.

"Relax." Emma kisses him lightly, her fingers working at the buttons of his coat. "Your shoes are fine." She takes his coat and scarf, handing him the bottle of wine she's brought along. His eyes linger on them as she hangs them up beside the others, everyone's things in a neat row.

She takes the bottle of wine back and threads her fingers through his, tugging lightly to bring him into the kitchen. Mary Margaret has just finished setting the roasting pan on the stovetop, the mouth-watering smell of the roasted chicken filling the space.

"Where's David?" Emma asks, setting the wine down on the counter. She moves easily around the kitchen, opening a drawer for a corkscrew before stretching to reach wine glasses.

"Upstairs. He fell asleep when he came home on the couch. I heard him get out of the shower right before you came in." Mary Margaret rolls her eyes, but she's smiling indulgently. "Hi, Killian. I'm so glad you could make it."

"Thank you for the invitation." He's a bit formal, and Emma can read the tension in his shoulders, but he's trying.

"Wine?" she asks cheerfully, figuring a little bit of liquid courage never hurt anyone. "David's got beer in the fridge too, if you rather have that."

"All right." She moves past him to grab the beer, her hand brushing his arm as she goes with a light squeeze. He seems grateful for the distraction as she presses the beer into his hand, turning her attention back to the wine. "I brought a merlot, if you want some?" she asks Mary Margaret, turning for another glass.

"I'm all set, thanks." Emma looks up with surprise, but Mary Margaret is wearing a secretive smile. Emma stares at her, her eyes narrowing as she takes in her sister in law's appearance. Mary Margaret usually isn't one to turn down a glass of wine, especially not when hosting a dinner, and there's something about that smile of hers…

"He didn't tell!" Emma blurts out, setting down her glass and wrapping her arms around Mary Margaret. "Really? I'm so happy for you!"

"We were going to tell you tonight," she admits, her voice practically bubbling with joy. "I wanted to be sure. I only told him yesterday."

Emma releases her, glancing back at Killian, who looks quite confused by the exchange. "She's pregnant," Emma explains. "They've been trying forever."

"Ah. Congratulations would be in order then." He tilts his beer in their direction before taking what seems to Emma a rather generous swig. There's something in his expression that she can't put her finger on, but it send a shiver of nerves down her spine.

"Thank you." Mary Margaret is practically beaming at Emma as David makes his appearance, his hair still wet from his shower. He takes a look around the room, joining his wife with a sigh.

"You told them, didn't you?"

"Emma guessed."

"She never says no to wine," Emma explains helpfully, gesturing with her glass. "It was sort of a giveaway." She sets her glass back down on the counter, wrapping her arms around her brother and holding on tight. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks." He releases her, nodding at Killian. "Nice to see you, Killian."

"Aye. Your home is lovely. Thank you for inviting me." Emma struggles to hide her dismay at the obvious stiffness of the words, returning to his side and leaning against him. She can feel the tension in him, the hardness of the muscle in his body.

"Relax. They don't bite," she murmurs in his ear, her heels nearly making them an even height. She runs her hand down his back, but it doesn't seem to help his tension. He merely offers her a tight smile.

She figures it's just the newness, being in David's home and the very personal announcement Mary Margaret shared with them, that he'll relax. But as dinner goes on, he only seems to grow more uneasy, his leg bouncing under the table.

It's a struggle not to ask him what's wrong, but things _seem_ to be going well. It's a little awkward at first, but David is trying, steering the conversation toward innocuous topics that don't delve into their pasts. Killian is polite enough, but Emma knows him well enough to know something is wrong.

Maybe it _is_ too much pressure, she worries, sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. David and Mary Margaret practically glow with happiness. David's been extra attentive tonight; they're practically a walking advertisement for happily ever after with their beautiful home and happy marriage.

She helps Mary Margaret clean up, reluctantly leaving Killian to David. The low hum of their voices is barely audible from the kitchen, and she can't help but keep sending worried glances their way.

"He's just nervous," Mary Margaret says softly, her hand on Emma's arm. "The way he looks at you, Emma…" She smiles, squeezing Emma's arm before grabbing an empty pan from the stove. "That man loves you."

"I know." She flushes at Mary Margaret's surprised look, not expecting Emma's response. "He told me…the other night."

"Good."

"You don't think it's too fast?"

She laughs, shaking her head at Emma with a small smile. "I'm not David, Emma. I'm happy for you. When you know, you know. He just needs time to get used to all of us."

"Yeah, that must be it," Emma agrees reluctantly, but she just can't shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

><p>Apparently, I'm getting wordier as this goes on. I don't suspect any of you will be complaining...<p> 


	19. Chapter 19

Emma leaves the kitchen with a stomach full of knots. She wants this night to go well so badly, for herself, for Killian, but his quietness is unsettling. Sure, he's not going to be the flirting, borderline scandalous man she loves best in front of her brother, but he's _too_ quiet.

It's not that he's trying to behave himself, or watch his words in front of her family – he's just not _himself_.

She slides down beside him on the couch, the fire filling the room with a warm glow. He offers her a thin smile as she snuggles close, but he's rubbing at his wrist almost subconsciously.

Emma can feel her brows pull together, wondering if the source of his odd mood is his missing hand and the phantom pain she's witnessed before. Is it bothering him tonight? Is it like broken bones, where the cold makes it worse? It's warm in the Nolan household, but it's freezing outside.

She watches him the rest of the night, the tense line of his shoulders, the way his jaw will tighten for a fraction of a second before the tension lessens. David is telling him about the house, about the work they've done on it, and Killian appears to be listening with interest – except for the fractions of seconds when his façade slips just a enough for Emma to read him.

That's when he looks like he's in hell.

Emma stays as long as she can stand it, but when she finally hits her breaking point, she makes their excuses. He won't even look at her as they bundled themselves back up in their coats and scarves for the short trip back to her apartment.

Helplessness does not suit her.

"Hey." He's still not really talking to her when they enter the apartment, but Emma is determined to try. Her voice is soft and inviting, her touch on his arm light. "You promised me a goodnight kiss."

What little pretense he was bothering to hold onto shatters, and the emotions on his face make her knees feel weak. She's never seen a man in so much pain, and she can't tell where the physical bleeds into the emotional.

"Hey…" She runs her hands up his chest, her palms cupping his cheeks as he takes one ragged breath, then another. "Tell me," she whispers, brushing her thumb through the scruff of his beard. "I can help."

"You can't." His eyes squeeze shut, his breath catching as he nearly gasps. "Nothing can help, Swan."

"Is it your hand?"

"In part. Bloody bad timing, that."

"Let me try."

"Swan, I don't…"

She hushes him with a kiss, pushing the jacket off his shoulder and leading him to the couch. He tries to pull his arm back, but she holds tight, her eyes steely in the dim light as she pushes the sleeve of his sweater up to reveal the straps of the brace keeping the prosthetic hand in place. "Why did you put this on so tightly?" she chastises him softly, noticing the way the straps are nearly cutting into his skin.

"Wouldn't be suitable to lose a hand at family dinner."

She stops for a moment, only one of the straps loosened, but her hand stilling on his scarred arm. "You have to stop, Killian. I love you just the way you are. My family will too. Just give them time to get to know you."

This time, he does succeed in jerking his arm out of her grasp, his own fingers working the straps free in sharp, angry yanks. Once free, he hurls the entire contraption across the room in a fit of temper, narrowly missing the TV and making Emma jump at the resulting crash.

He's breathing heavily, his hand clutching the now bare wrist and his face pale with pain. He terrifies her in this moment, much more so than she wants to admit, but Emma isn't easily frightened, at least not by this display. It's more the look in his eyes, the way he's pushing her away that scares her.

"It's all right," she soothes, her soft voice a direct contrast to the firmness of her grip as she pushes his hand away, gently massaging the ruined flesh and tensed muscle. "Let me help."

The fight goes out of him, his shoulders slumping as he all but falls back into the couch cushions. He winces as she touches him, but he doesn't try to jerk out of her grasp again, and eventually, his breathing calms.

"Better?"

He doesn't answer her, not right away. He just stares at her, his face impossible to read as the various emotions flicker by. "Do you know what hell is to me, Swan? This. This is hell."

The hurt slams into her, and she snatches her fingers back like he's burned her. He has, in a sense. "I don't understand."

He starts to pace, and it only makes the agitation she's been feeling from him all night worse. It reminds her of a caged animal, angry and riled and _dangerous_.

"This last year or so, alone, I thought that was hell. I was wrong. _This_ is worse. Being with you, like this, this is bloody awful."

She can't stop the tears from falling, and it's her gasping sob that gets his attention. He freezes immediately, turning to her and cursing before kneeling down in front of her, his hand wrapping around hers.

"Swan, you misunderstand. Likely my bloody fault. Right mess I've made of the evening." He lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her gently. "You are the only good thing in my life, love."

"I don't _understand_," she manages to whisper, barely able to get the words out without letting the tears take over. She can tell there's something bigger here, something that's much more about him than it is about her, but sometimes, being strong is just too hard. This entire conversation is terrifying, because the path they're venturing down doesn't end in a place she wants to visit.

"Don't you, though? I can't _give_ you any of what you deserve, Emma. I can't fashion you a beautiful house from rubble. I can barely sit through dinner some nights without my bloody nonexistent hand coming back from the dead to plague me." He's bitter and angry and _defeated_, and it's the defeat that crawls down her spine, makes her stomach clench in fear, because he doesn't sound like he's got anything worth hanging onto.

"I don't care."

"Perhaps now you don't, but one day you'll look about, and then you will. I'm not what you need, Emma. You want children, yes?"

"I haven't really thought about it." It's a lie – she _has_ thought about it. More so, lately, with him. A lot, tonight, in her brother's house with her pregnant sister in law and Killian beside her.

"But you will." The way he says it, he's seen through her lie – he _always_ sees through her lies – and this is the closet he's going to come to calling her out on it. "And what sort of father would I be, lass? My father drank himself to death and I've got but the one hand and nightmares that come to life. I'm not fit to be anyone's parent, least of all to a child of yours."

Emma isn't even bothering to fight the tears now, because he's kneeling in front of her, and his hand is clasping hers tightly, but this feels more like _goodbye_ than anything. It's so far from where their evening began, full of promise and warmth, and this _can't be happening_.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I _love_ you. We'll figure it out together." She tries to sound confident, certain, but her voice is shaking.

"I love you so bloody much, Emma. I didn't think it was possible to feel what I feel for you." He takes a deep breath, settling back on his heels and slowly releasing her hand. "I'm a damn selfish man, love. Have been most of my life. But I can't ruin you with this – I can't drag you through hell with me."

"Don't you dare." The words are choked out between sobs, because she sees it all over his face, the determination and stubbornness she's come to know so well etching themselves into his flesh. "Don't you say those thing to me, not now."

His eyes are watery when he looks up at her, frozen in his place on the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes squeezing shut as he gets to his feet, reaching blindly for his coat.

"Killian!" Emma doesn't want to be this woman, this tearful, pleading woman, but she can't do this tonight, can't watch him walk out the door and know he won't come back. There's nothing tying him to this town but her, and she can't stand the thought of losing him.

Her fingers twist in the soft material of his sweater, clinging to him as the tears pour free. He doesn't speak, but his head bows to hers, his skin on hers, his breath on her cheek. "You promised," she chokes out, the words nearly lost in her tears. "You said you weren't going anywhere."

His arm comes around her waist and she thinks she's won, at least for tonight, burying her face in his neck and gasping for air. His lips brush her cheek, and then he's kissing her, a desperate, savage kiss that leaves her feeling branded.

"I lied, darling." It's a ragged whisper, and then he's gone.

* * *

><p>Short chapter, I know. I planned it this way, but it was still damn hard to write.<p>

Also, not sure how many of you are on Tumblr but I made a fandom account. Too confusing with one blog filled with running and fandom and recipes and life, so separate they will now be! Same name as here (nowforruin) if you'd like to find me.


	20. Chapter 20

Emma promised herself she wouldn't do this ever again, wouldn't let herself fall apart over a man, but yet somehow, that's what's happening.

She tries, she does, to put herself back together when she's cried the tears out, but she can't seem to do it. The apartment is filled with him – his things he hasn't bothered to collect, memories, the scent of him on her sheets.

He's _everywhere_ – except he's not.

Emma doesn't know how long she sits on the floor of the living room, huddled into a ball. She's been cold for hours, and the night has come and gone, but she doesn't have the energy to move. Her phone's rung, but she hasn't answered it. She hasn't even bothered looking at the screen – it's not Killian calling, and that's about all she cares about.

At some point, she may have slept. Her mind plays their argument on a loop, clinging to him calling her _darling_ even as he slipped out of her life. She's not even sure it can be called an argument – he plainly wasn't listening to her. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts the entire time, and she powerless to stop him.

"Emma?" It's Ruby's voice that makes her turn her head to the door, her friend's concerned expression enough to make the tears flow freely all over again. "Oh, honey…" Ruby gets down on the floor with her, wraps her arms around her and holds tight. "I'm so sorry."

"How…did…" Emma's throat hurts when she talks, and the words are thick, scratchy. She's cried herself raw these last hours.

Ruby sighs, gripping Emma's freezing hands in her own. "He asked for a ride into Portland. I wasn't going to take him but he said he would walk if I didn't. I thought it better…"

Emma only nods, because it's freezing outside, and it's bad enough he walked to the bar last night. She should have gone after him, should have begged him to stay, but she couldn't find the strength to move her legs. The hurt paralyzed her last night, and it's paralyzing her now.

He doesn't _want_ her – doesn't want to _fight_ for her.

"What happened?"

"He left," Emma whispers into the cool air, her eyes locked on the blank wall across from her. The prosthetic hand lies on the floor where he threw it, mocking her all the night long. "He said this was hell, being with me. And then he left."

Ruby frowns, her gaze following Emma's to where the hand sits ominously on the floor, a dent in the plaster above it. "C'mon, let's get up off the floor. It's freezing in here."

It's been years since Ruby's seen Emma like this, her eyes vacant and her limbs limp. She's all but a ragdoll in Ruby's arms as her friend gets her onto the couch and under a blanket, one eye trained on her even as she goes to make tea.

It brings back bad memories, memories Ruby doesn't like to dwell on. She met Emma their last year of high school, when Ruby was a last minute transfer and Emma still a destructive teenager. She was already living with David and his mom, but the hurts hadn't faded enough for Emma to be anything other than an outcast, especially with David away at college.

The two became fast friends when Ruby offered Emma a sip from her coffee mug one morning, only to have Emma nearly spit vodka all over them both. "Makes first period less boring," Ruby had offered up helpfully, handing Emma a napkin.

Emma had only smiled, taking another, slower sip before handing the mug back. "Better make it tequila next time."

"You got it, Blondie."

It's a memory that makes Ruby smile, but the rest are harder. Emma self-medicated with liquor, not that Ruby was much better. But Ruby didn't push it as far as Emma did, and she still remembers a night she sat next to Emma, holding her hair back as the blonde clutched the sides of the toilet for hours. It was a bad night, and it was the dead look in her friend's eyes that made her finally give up and call David.

Emma ended up in the emergency room that night.

Ruby worries now, worries that this will be far worse than a night in the ER. Emma has changed over the years, gotten stronger, put herself back together. She still drinks too much when it gets hard, but Ruby hasn't seen this look in her eyes since that night as teenagers.

And it's terrifying.

She presses the mug of tea into Emma's limp fingers, lifting the quilt and settling beside her friend. "I can call David," she offers, careful not to touch Emma in spite of their closeness.

"He'll kill him."

"I might kill him," Ruby mutters darkly, unable to stop herself. She feels responsible for this, for bringing Killian into their lives and encouraging a relationship between them. Maybe David was right – maybe Killian _is_ too broken to be with Emma.

"You can't. I love him." Emma barely gets the words out before the tears come all over again, sobs that shake her entire body. Ruby manages to get the hot mug of tea out of Emma's hands before it spills, narrowly avoiding burning them both.

"I know you don't like to be touched, but I'm going to hug you now," Ruby tells her, wrapping her arms around Emma's shaking shoulders and holding on fiercely. "I'm so sorry." Emma doesn't fight her, and that's scarier than anything, because Emma's always been a fighter.

Eventually, Emma doesn't even cry.

Ruby won't leave her alone. If she's not at work with David, Ruby is at her apartment. Ruby boxes up Killian's things, and Emma isn't sure if that's making it better or worse, knowing he's been carefully removed from her home while she numbly made it through another workday.

One day bleeds into the next. She tries to tell herself to stop hoping, to stop looking at her phone every time it makes a noise. She tries to force herself to wake knowing the person beside her in her bed is Ruby, not Killian, that for a fraction of a second she doesn't forget he's gone, because remembering, that's just living it all over again.

_This last year or so, alone, I thought that was hell. I was wrong. This is worse. Being with you, like this, this is bloody awful._

She doesn't talk to David about it, not that what she's doing with Ruby could be considered talking. Mostly, they sit in silence together. Ruby makes her eat, makes her shower, makes her go to work. Emma has no idea who's minding the Rabbit Hole, but she doesn't have it in her to care.

David cares. She's seen him staring at her, the way his jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists at his sides. He treats her like she's glass, fragile and breakable and about to shatter at any second, but when he doesn't think she's watching, she sees it.

Part of her doesn't want Killian to come back – even if he does, she doubts he'll survive David's wrath. It almost comforts her, to see her brother so willing to protect her, but all it does is remind her of what she's lost, of what Killian _wasn't_ willing to do.

He was too afraid to fight for her, so he left.

He was too afraid of the future, so he abandoned the present.

He didn't leave her to take a beating, no, but in some ways what he did was worse. He _knew_ she'd been left before, had listened to her beg him in the terror of the nightmares not to leave, had promised not to – and then he'd left anyway.

Why did he have to call her _darling_ as he did it? Why did he have to tell her she's the only good thing in his life, that he _loves_ her, right before he walked about without a backwards glance?

He didn't even come back for his things, his clothes, his _hand_.

Ruby says he didn't even come back for his last paycheck.

It takes about a week for the numbness to wear off, and in its wake, Emma gets _pissed_. Who the hell does he think he is to treat her this way, to simply tell her he lied and walk away? It's hard to keep believing it, to not doubt, but Emma _knows_ he loves her. He _didn't_ lie when he said he wasn't leaving – he meant it that night.

But somewhere along the way he stopped fighting.

She wishes she could be mad at David, for telling him about the house and the work they did. She wishes she could be mad at Mary Margaret for announcing her pregnancy. She wishes that she could just be mad at Killian for walking out.

But mostly she's mad at herself for not going after him, because she didn't fight either. She just let herself fall apart on her living room floor.

"Are you sure?" Ruby asks when Emma shows up at the bar in the middle of the day demanding to know where she dropped Killian off. "He's probably gone by now, Em."

"I have to try."

"Do you want me to go with you?" Ruby's tapping away on her phone, then grabbing a napkin and scrawling an address on it.

"No. I have to do this alone." Emma takes a deep breath, pocketing the napkin without even reading the address. She'll look at it in the car, when she can be alone and handle whatever it contains.

"It's supposed to snow tonight. Be careful, please." Ruby grabs her hand as she walks away, pulls her back and makes Emma look her in the eye. "If you find him…"

"I'm not even thinking about what happens if I find him, Ruby. I just _can't_ not look for him." Emma takes a deep breath, impulsively hugging her friend. "Don't tell David where I'm going. He'll try to stop me."

"I don't think so."

Emma smiles weakly before she turns for the door. It's déjà vu as she gets in the car, the Rabbit Hole standing watch through her windshield. The last time she went after him, it started here, with Ruby, in this parking lot.

Only this time, Emma isn't sure she's going to find him. It's not a short ride across town – it's an hour south. The day is bitterly cold already, and overhead, clouds are gathering. Ruby's right – it's supposed to snow tonight. She really shouldn't be driving down to Portland, but she figures if it's bad enough, she'll just get a room for the night.

It's a long drive, and she has plenty of time to think. She leaves the radio off, preferring the monotony of the tires on the pavement and her own thoughts. The address Ruby gave her is as she suspected – another shitty motel on the outskirts of town.

She debates calling him, not that he answered any of her other calls or messages. She wonders if it would make a difference to him, to know she's coming. Would he wait for her, let her catch up to him? Or would it just make him run farther away from her?

Is he already gone?

Snow flurries have started by the time she arrives at the run down motel by the airport, her heart heavy. She has no idea how she's going to find him this time, but she's hopeful maybe this motel's staff is a bit more forthcoming than Gold's.

It doesn't hurt that she's still got her badge on her hip.

But the news isn't good. Yes, he was here. No, he's not still staying here.

Emma returns to her car with the snow swirling around her, tears choking her. She's not entirely surprised he's gone – she tried so hard on the drive down to convince herself she wasn't getting her hopes up, that even if she found him, it wasn't necessarily to get him back, but just for some damn _explanations_.

She should go home. Regroup. Maybe talk to David about tracing his phone, even if it is a little bit illegal. Maybe she'll just make the rounds of all the crappy motels in the area, see if she can find him that way.

It's a needle in a haystack. A very large haystack.

Maybe she'll just go find a bar and get drunk. She hasn't done that yet – Ruby hasn't let her. It's tempting to give into the numbness the liquor will bring, but it's not going to help her find him.

She _has_ to find him.

It's impulse that draws her to the ocean. The wind is rising, the surf pounding on the sand as the storm draws closer. She shouldn't linger – the snows will come on fast and furious, so says the weather report.

It's the first big storm of the year, and she doesn't even know if Killian is still in Maine. He could be anywhere, by now. She had plans for this, to draw him out into the snow, make him make snow angels and snowmen and throw snowballs with her.

It seems so foolish now.

She gets out of the car anyway, the wind tearing at her hair and her scarf. It suits her, in some strange way, to have the weather wild and raging. She doesn't have the energy to rage, so she lets the storm do it for her.

It's bitterly cold by the water, the mist from the waves clinging to her exposed skin and hair. She buries her face into her scarf, breathing through the thick fleece and squeezing her eyes shut. The howl of the wind and the roar of the waves are almost enough to drown out her thoughts, and she lets them.

She stands there for minutes or hours, she isn't sure. The wind batters her, the spray and snow soaking her jeans, and vaguely, she's aware of shaking from the cold, but all she can see is the vastness of the ocean in front of her. She doesn't want to turn around, get in her car and go home to her empty apartment.

"Emma!"

It's a whisper on the wind, him calling her name. She ignores it, certain it's a trick of the wind, closing her eyes and letting the crash of the waves echo around her. It's not like he's actually there on the beach with her.

It's only when his fingers curl around her shoulder that her eyes fly open in shock.

"Your lips are blue." He seems angry, his eyes narrowed against the wind, the collar of his jacket turned up and a scarf wrapped tightly around him. His hand chafes her arms, briskly rubbing to bring some warmth to her, but she's gone numb and she's barely aware of it.

"You're not real."

"How long have you been out here?" He takes off her scarf, wraps her in it, starts tugging her away from the water. "You're soaked all the bloody way through, love."

It slips out, and it's the thing that finally snaps her out of it. "Don't you dare," she snaps at him, the fire igniting in her chest. The sudden rush of awareness brings the cold crashing in, and it's the only reason she doesn't pull away from him entirely.

He nods, but he doesn't let her go either. "You need to get warm."

"My car is on the other side of the dunes."

She's shaking from the cold, violent shivers that make her entire body tremble. It doesn't seem real, him being here, on this beach. Portland isn't huge, but it's not that small either.

"What are you doing here?" she demands as they clear the sand, her yellow bug a bright spot of color in the desolate lot of gray and white. Her hand shakes badly as she tries to get her keys out of her pocket, and he takes them from her, gently.

"Red called. Said you'd come looking for me." He unlocks the driver's side door, but stops her from getting in. "I'll drive. You can't, shaking like a bloody leaf."

"I…"

"Get in, Swan."

She wants to yell at him, to ask him who the hell he thinks he is, because he is _not_ her knight in shining armor – he's made that much perfectly clear. But she's _freezing_ and she's just out of energy.

He starts driving without another word.

"Where are we going?" Emma demands when he doesn't turn for the highway, but instead continues on along the beachside road.

"I have a room nearby. You can't sit in the car soaked through for an hour's drive or more."

"I'm not going to one of those awful motels, Killian."

"No, I suppose not." He smiles, a tight smile, but he keeps driving down the beach. Emma eyes him suspiciously when he pulls into the parking lot of a modern building, one of the nicer hotels that's usually packed in the summer.

"This is where you're staying?"

He nods, his eyes fixed on the gleaming windows and the raging ocean beyond. "Aye. It didn't seem right, staying in that place, after all those things you said to me about where a man chooses to live."

"Nothing I said stopped you from leaving," she snaps before she can stop herself. He winces, but she doesn't care. If she wasn't so damn cold, she would order him out, drive herself home, and have a good long cry.

But it takes more effort to fight him than to get out of the car and follow him inside.

* * *

><p>Two chapters in one day, since that last one was a little heart fail-y.<p>

True story, I wrote this chapter and accidentally pasted over it and had a small panic attack. Thank god for that "undo" button.


	21. Chapter 21

His room faces the ocean, a huge plate glass window displaying the full fury of the incoming storm. The waves stretch out before them, the surf spitting out foam as the snows settle in, thick bits of white that fall softly outside the glass, only to race along in a sudden gust of wind.

"Here." He holds out a pair of fleece pants and a thermal shirt, the fabrics soft and warm. They smell like him, and she feels like she's been burned just holding them.

"Replace your wardrobe already?"

"Aye. It was easier than facing you." She hears the pain in his voice, the regret, the shame, but she doesn't _care_. (It's a lie, she cares plenty, but she doesn't want to, not with the way he's hurt her.) "You should shower, get warm."

She nods, turning for the bathroom. It's like moving through a dream, going through the motions of turning on the water, undressing. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her hair tangled and windblown, her cheeks red from the cold and her lips a faintly blue tint.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she asks her reflection, her ears straining for any movement in the room outside the door. She's found him (he found her) but now what?

The Emma in the mirror doesn't have any answers, either.

She's nearly convinced herself he'll be gone by the time she gets out of the shower, but she can't bring herself to rush, either. The water burns her frozen skin, her numb fingers and toes coming back to sudden awareness as the water hits them. She stands under the spray, lets the water rush over her, and struggles with the tears that want to spill over.

She doesn't even know why she wants to cry. Relief? It can't be that – yes, she's found him, but what good is it going to do her? Even if he _does_ come home with her, it's going to take a long time for her to trust him again. Does she even _want_ to try to trust him again? And what is she supposed to do with the anger, simmering hot beneath her frozen skin?

The water is still rushing over her when she hears the door crack open, his voice low and worried. "Are you all right?" he asks softly, his voice barely audible over the water.

"Sure." It's the best she can do, because the real answer is _no_, she's not all right. She's confused and hurt and exhausted and _pissed_. But she doesn't want to tell him that, doesn't want him to be in this bathroom with her, only the thin curtain separating them. Whatever else she feels, she still _wants_ him, and the last thing she can do is give into that with things how they are between them.

"I'll be right outside if you need me."

"Okay." The door shuts quietly behind him, and Emma lets out the breath she hadn't meant to hold. She stays where she is, the water rushing over her, until it runs cool.

She dries off slowly, merely delaying the inevitable. Whatever he's going to say to her, it's going to be hard to hear. He might apologize – but that will mean listening to an explanation of why he left her in the first place. Or possibly worse, he might not apologize. He might simply wait for her to be warm enough to be on her way.

His clothes are too big for her. She rolls the waist of the pants, so similar to the ones he showed up at her door wearing that first night he slept in her bed. It feels weak to do it, but Emma presses the shirt to her nose anyway, draws in the smell of him before she pulls the shirt over her head, pushing the too-long sleeves up to her elbows.

He's pacing when she finally opens the bathroom door, the windows beyond showing a wall of white has closed in around them while she was in the shower. Her heart sinks with realization the storm has arrived.

She's stuck here now, whether she wants to be or not.

He stops short when he hears the door open, his eyes wide and fixed on her. He scrubs his hand over his face, opening his mouth to speak but then stopping before the words come out.

"The storm's here," Emma says when he remains silent, nodding at the windows. It's a struggle to keep her voice from breaking. "Are there a lot of people staying here? It's normally pretty empty in the winter. I should get my own room." It's someone else talking, cold, detached words that come from her mouth without her permission.

"Please stay."

"Why? You didn't. You didn't stay. So why should I?"

"Because I love you. Because I'm a bloody idiot and a fool. I've spent the last hour trying to think of words that will convey what it is I feel for you, love, but I don't have them. I just love you and I need you and I never should have walked out your door."

She wants to go to him, let him wrap her in his arms and kiss her until they both forget this ever happened, but she can't. Her heart is too fragile to turn over to him again so soon.

Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes on the snow outside. The wind is rising, the snow slanting as it races across her field of vision, nearly making her dizzy. She can barely see the ocean through the wall of white.

"You left." She huddles inside her clothes, drawing her knees up to her chest and pulling the shirt over them. "You left without so much as an explanation. You told me you _lied_ to me and _you just left_."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Why, Killian?" Her resolve is crumbling, the emotion creeping back into her words. It's a struggle to keep them even, to keep the tears in her choked throat and behind her burning eyes. "I warned you, about David and Mary Margaret. I _told_ you how they are."

"I reacted poorly and behaved badly, I know. I knew then. I just…" He sighs, gingerly sitting beside her on the bed. It takes most of Emma's self control not to lean into him. "I have nothing to offer you, Emma. You've been through so much already, and you have a lovely family now, and I'm…not a lovely man. I've demons and troubles and one bloody hand."

"I _told_ you, I don't care. I just wanted you to stay." It's a useless fight, her crusade against the tears, because they're stronger than she is, and they're pouring down her cheeks.

"You deserve better."

"Just _stop_!" Her anger surprises him, his eyes widening, but Emma doesn't pause, doesn't slow down to think. The words just come rushing out, so fast he can barely follow her. "You need to stop telling me what I need, what I deserve. You don't get to make those choices. _I _get to make those choices. If _you_ don't want me, you say so. That's your choice. _That's_ the choice you get to make. Do you want me?"

"Emma, I…it's not a question of…"

"Yes or no, Killian. Those are your choices." Her hands are shaking inside the sleeves of his shirt, and she clutches them together, out of his sight. "Do. You. Want. Me?" It's the hardest question she's ever asked in her life, because she isn't sure, she doesn't _know_ what he's going to say.

"I've never wanted anything so badly in my life." His voice is hoarse, like he's struggling to keep himself in line, his hand balled into a tight fist where it rests on his thigh.

"Then you _fight_ for it, god damn it! You _tell_ me when it's hard, when you need some space, when it's too much or you're afraid, or whatever the problem is, you _fucking tell me_!" It's hard to breathe, the sobs choking her and the words stealing her breath. She's yelling at him, and she doesn't quite mean to, but she can't stop.

He's watching her, eyes intense and body rigid. His gaze drops to her mouth, and she shouldn't want him this badly, but she does. "Okay," he whispers, reaching for her and nearly crumpling with relief when she comes to him, lets him wrap her up in his arms and cling to her.

"David is probably to punch you," she tells him, struggling to stop crying, to stop sniffling, to gain some sort of control over herself.

"I intend to let him."

"Killian!"

She pulls back, running her fingers lightly over his face, the arch of his brow and the curve of his cheek. "You are not going to go looking for a fight."

"I deserve it."

"Maybe." She takes a deep breath, inching closer until their lips are nearly touching. "Probably. But it's not up to David what happens between us."

He's the one to close the gap, to kiss her gently, reverently. His hand tangles in her wet hair as she settles into his lap, and the sensation of his body so close, the scent of him, the heat of him, it's almost too much, but it can _never_ be too much.

Something in her snaps, and the kiss goes from tender to needy, Emma's fingers tightening in his hair, her mouth greedy as she presses closer. She doesn't want to talk anymore; she doesn't want to _hurt_ anymore.

They've only been apart a week, but it feels like so much longer. Killian has become a part of her, woven into the fabric of her soul. She knows that now, wrapped in his arms, because him leaving was like tearing her in two. She still hurts, and it will take more than this night to heal these wounds, but it's a start.

She wishes they could go home, crawl into bed together in the apartment, but it seems better in some ways, to be here, together and starting new. The storm keeps them here, isolated, away from Ruby, away from David, away from the memories of the apartment.

He's whispering her name in between their kisses, almost like it's a prayer and a plea, his hand falling to the small of her back, fingers splayed across her skin beneath the shirt. But he doesn't fall back when she leans into his shoulders, tries to push him down.

His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with lust, but he still seems nervous when she pulls back to look at him. "What's wrong?"

He laughs, a nervous, jittery laugh. His hand moves to her cheek, his thumb rubbing her swollen bottom lip. "I didn't bring you here so you would go to bed with me tonight."

"I know."

"I failed at this, Emma. I told you before, that you're worth treating properly, and I didn't. We've never even had a proper date." His eyes drop to her mouth, her lips red with their kisses, and it takes a great deal of control to slide his hand to her waist and stop there. "Perhaps we should…slow down."

She wants to argue. She wants to just kiss him until he stops going on about _properly_ and dates and anything other than being in this room together, this night. It's growing dark around them, and she wants him to chase away the shadows with his lips and his touch, to warm her from the inside out, but she knows he's right.

"I love you," he murmurs against her shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to her skin where the neckline of the too-big shirt has slipped off. "I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if I have to, Emma."

"You _can't_ leave me like that again."

"I know." He kisses her, a tender kiss that makes her feel fragile in his arms. "I won't. I realize perhaps you won't believe me, now, in light of all that's happened…but I was going to come back. I was working up the nerve when Red called, said you'd come looking for me."

"How _did_ you find me on that beach?"

He sighs, taking her hand and weaving his fingers through hers. "I was walking back toward the motel where Red dropped me. Figured you would start there. I saw your car at the beach. Not many people 'round here driving such a hideously bright contraption."

She smiles at that, a tiny, reluctant smile. He's made fun of her car as long as she's known him, and she probably shouldn't be letting him tease her now, but it feels good to smile, to let the tension ease out of her shoulders. "I love the bug."

"I love you."

She hangs onto the smile, barely, because it's what she wants to hear, it's the right thing for him to say, but she wonders how long it will be before she can hear the words without the twinge of pain, the specter of doubt instantly creeping in behind the sentiment.

She doesn't want him to see it on her face, the doubt, so she kisses him, gives herself over to the simple pleasure of kisses that won't go anywhere, just the brush of his lips on hers. It's impossible to avoid the heat between them, to not press her hips against his and gasp softly at the feel of him against her, but he stops them before it goes any further.

"I meant what I said, love." His voice is raspy, and it does nothing to cool her blood the way he's looking at her. "I want to survive this grave error I've made. I want to earn back your trust and your body and your heart. I don't want one without the others."

"I love you," she whispers, because there's nothing else she _can_ say. He knows the words she isn't saying – that she loves him, but trust is harder. That she would gladly give him her body tonight, but her heart is too fragile to trust it to anyone but herself.

"I'm going to be better," he promises, twisting to yank the sheets and blankets back from the bed. "I will learn, Emma. To be a better man. To be a man who deserves you."

"I know." She watches him move across the room, draw the curtains closed on the storm outside. It was dark before he closed them, but without the glow of the snow, she can barely see anything. It's a relief, in some ways, to not see the pain in his eyes, to know he can't see the pain in hers.

He's warm when he slides beneath the blankets, and she's moved to him before she's realized it, fitting her body to his as easy as drawing a breath. She's been exhausted all week, barely sleeping, and after the emotional upheaval of the day, the cold of the beach and the heat of the shower, she's asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

He lays awake, listening to the howl of the wind, Emma's breathing, and his own heart racing. It doesn't seem right, that she's here, that she's capable of forgiving him, and he knows he doesn't deserve it, but he can't give her up.

He'll walk over hot coals before he'll walk away from her again.

No, he doesn't deserve her. But he's right where he needs to be.

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><p>I seriously love reading all of your comments. Some of you guys are so passionate in your opinions and I just absolutely love it. Hope this chapter lived up to expectations!<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

Fair warning: this is the heaviest chapter of the fic.

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><p>Emma sleeps the sleep of the exhausted in his arms, but Killian is wide awake.<p>

It's early to be going to bed, but that's only a part of it. Emma clearly needs the sleep, and Killian…Killian needs to hold her. The wind is loud, drowning out the sound of the angry surf, howling its fury behind the windows and the curtains, but inside the dark room, it's the eye of the storm.

Killian is under no impression it's sunny skies ahead.

She's tucked against him, her cheek on his chest and her fingers splayed across his ribs. She hasn't moved since she fell asleep, and he's grateful her sleep is peaceful. She obviously hasn't been getting much of it, with the bluish shadows beneath her eyes and the worn expression he can't dismiss from his memory.

Emma looked _broken_ when he found her on that beach, shaking from cold and barely aware of it. He already knew he'd made a grave error in leaving, but the dead look in her eyes, _that_ had gutted him.

He doesn't know how he's going to make this right with her. The semblance of a plan he's been working on doesn't seem quite so appropriate now that she's come to fetch him. He intended to return, he did – he just needed a little more time.

At least, that's what he's been telling himself. He wanted to return to her on his own. He intended to purchase himself a vehicle and drive it back, prove to her that he was willing to do something difficult, make a step in the right direction, because he wants a life with her.

It isn't a beautifully restored home, but it's a start.

How does he tell her that, now? He can't be certain if he would have done it in a day or two or three weeks; how long it would have taken him to work up the nerve. Or if he would have – failure is always a possibility with him. Then what? Would he have slunk away to lick his wounds and carry the memory of Emma Swan around where his heart used to be for the rest of his life? Would he have called Red, begged her to help him?

Would he have answered any of Emma's messages or texts?

He doesn't know. He wishes he did, that he was a better man, but he's not. This day has proven to him that he's not much better than the scoundrel he's been accused of being plenty a time before.

But god help him, he's going to try to be better – to be the sort of man Emma seems to think he is, the sort of man who deserves her. He's never met a woman quite like her, so stubborn and yet capable of such tenderness and love. There were plenty of women before Milah, but none after, ashamed as he was of the scars and his loss.

Emma is the first to see him, exposed and naked to the world. And all she did was kiss him, touch his skin softly, and pull him into her bed.

He curses himself, laying in bed and twisting his fingers ever so gently through her hair as she sleeps. What ever possessed him to walk out on her, to let an evening's obsessive thought of _not good enough_ win?

He nods off at some point, in spite of his worries, in spite of the howl of the storm. Emma lulls him into it, her softness and her warmth and her love, in spite of how angry he knows she still is. He deserves it – he'll let her rail against him as long as she pleases.

It's still dark when he wakes, the howl of the wind no quieter, Emma's breaths still deep and even. He fumbles in the dark for his phone, squinting in the sudden brightness to check the time.

Three AM. Hardly an appropriate time for waking, but awake he is. He can't dream of waking Emma – the fact that she hasn't moved an inch since she fell asleep is only further proof that she needs the rest.

There's a message from Ruby, four words only, no punctuation.

_did you find her_

_Yes, I have her_ he types back, hitting send before he chickens out. _We're waiting out the storm in Portland_, he adds, before the questions come.

_Did you talk?_

Killian frowns in the darkness, not sure if he wants to answer the question. Ruby is Emma's friend – does he have any business having this conversation without Emma's knowledge? But somewhere along the line, he supposes Ruby has become his friend, too.

_A little. She's been asleep for hours_.

Ruby's reply is instant and cuts deep. _She hasn't slept since you left, you know. I stayed with her, listened to her try and fail. It wasn't pretty, Jones. _

He gets her meaning loud and clear – he's being given a second chance. He better not fuck it up. Ruby isn't cleaning up his mess again.

_I will do better. I've promised._

_You better mean it this time._

Killian winces, setting the phone down without replying. He deserves it, and he knows this is only the start of it. He's hurt Red too, hurt her by hurting her friend, but also by walking out on her. The woman gave him a job, took him into her business – and when he walked out on Emma, he walked out on that too.

But fixing things with Ruby is the least of his problems, now. She might give him back his job – she might not. But she won't give him an inch until he makes it right with Emma, that much is clear from their brief conversation tonight.

He's grateful for it, in a way. Emma has good people in her life. He left, and they closed ranks around her. It's obvious from Ruby's interference, from her short messages, but she's not the only one. Emma seemed to be thinking it was a dark joke to say her brother would punch him, but Killian isn't so sure.

David Nolan strikes him as quite dangerous, given the proper motivation.

But David is a problem for another day. Killian knows that making it right with Emma is going to include making it right with the people who care about her, but he has to start with her. If he can't find a way to earn her trust back, to make himself worthy of her love, none of the rest will matter.

"I love you," he whispers into the dark, tightening his grip on her ever so slightly. "Walking away was the most foolish mistake of my life. I didn't lie, not intentionally. I wanted to stay with you forever. It was weak to leave, and weak to not tell you then and there the reasons why."

He's not even sure why he's saying all of this, now. She's asleep. He'll have to tell her, one day, the whole truth of things, but it's somehow easier, wrapped up in the darkness and the snow.

"You make me question everything," he continues softly, the words barely audible. His thumb runs down her cheek ever so lightly, over the delicate freckles he can't see now but knows are there. "You make me want to want beautifully restored houses and children and a _life_ I can be proud of. You make me want to believe in the romance of getting down on one knee, of asking the most important question a lad can ever ask a woman…you make me want things no other woman has ever made me want.

"I nearly told Red to turn the car 'round the entire drive to Portland. But it was already too late, love. I'd already said words I had no bloody business saying, and I saw what they did to you…and to go back then, well, I see now I should have, but it just seemed so powerfully unfair to you. I nearly did the job of convincing myself it was for the best, but it was a horrible, horrible lie, love. I've thought of little else but how I could return to you since Red dropped me.

"You terrify me, Emma Swan. I thank god it wasn't you in that car beside me. I wouldn't have survived it the way I survived Milah. It wouldn't have just been my damn hand that went that day – it would have been my entire bloody heart and soul. They're yours, love. They've been yours since you forced me out of that bloody motel. Perhaps before that. Walking away from you…bloody stupid. I'm a stupid man, Swan. A fool. I knew it was a mistake as I did it, did it anyway. Too bloody stubborn."

He takes a deep breath, his eyes sliding closed against the rush of emotion. His confessions are painful, but it helps to say the words, to let it be known – if only to these four walls – that he _knows_ what it is that he's done.

The trickier part is how to fix it.

Emma's sniffle startles him, and it's nearly impossible to hold in the curse of surprise. Her fingers curl into a fist where they lay on his chest, and then he hears it again, a sniffle she's trying to hide but can't.

"How much did you hear?" he whispers, noticing the glimmer of tears on her cheeks.

She opens her eyes, watery as they are, filled with longing and pain. "All of it."

He doesn't know what to say, a mixture of embarrassment and shame rising in his chest. He meant everything he said, but he's not sure he's ready to have this conversation with her, not with her wounds so fresh and things so raw between them.

He can't talk to her about marriage when he's only just broken her heart – and never even taken her on a proper date.

"Do you wish I hadn't?" she asks in response to his silence, pushing herself up on her elbow and looking down at him. Her hair is tangled, and there's a crease running down her cheek from the fold of his shirt, but she's never looked more beautiful to him.

"I wish you hadn't heard it now, love." His heart is racing, and he feels like he's wound too tightly to be sitting so still. "I wish I could have said these things to you, spoken of children and forever, when we were in a better place. When you wouldn't think me talking my way into your good graces and insincere."

"You thought I was asleep."

"Aye, I did." He offers her a tiny smile as she sits up, leaning against the headboard and studying him. Her eyes are piercing even in the dim light, intense in their study.

"I lied, too," she finally says, so softly he barely hears it. It sends a deep stab of alarm into his gut, but she surprises him when she continues. "When I said I hadn't really thought about it – having kids with you. David and Mary Margaret have been trying for so long, and I wondered…about us. I wondered if our kids would be blonde like me, if they would have your eyes or mine…" Her voice shakes, and he can see the glimmer of tears streaking down her cheeks. "And when Mary Margaret said she was pregnant, and you just _stood_ there looking like you'd swallowed a stone, all I could think was that you didn't want a family with me, that I wasn't your forever plan. And then you left."

"I…I didn't say anything because all the things I wanted to say were bloody inappropriate." He shakes his head at himself, unable to suppress the tiniest of smiles. "That announcement made me _want_ things with you I knew I couldn't deliver on, not now, not how I am…and I haven't any idea how long it will take for me to be prepared to do it properly."

"I don't think anyone's ever really prepared." She meets his eyes, laces her fingers with his and sighs. "Except my brother and his wife. But we're _not them_. We're us. We just dive right in, and if we make a mess of it, we make a mess. We didn't even _have _parents and we survived."

"Survived. I don't want our children to bloody _survive_, Emma. I want them to have love and happiness and a god damn dog."

She smiles, the first genuine smile he's really seen that isn't tinged with sadness since he found her on the beach. His hair is falling into his eyes, a mess thanks to his constant fiddling with it, but she pushes it back gently, her fingers light on his skin.

"That's how I know you'll be wonderful at it. You _want_ things for tiny little people that don't even exist. We won't always get everything right, Killian. Not with kids. Not with each other. But if we do the best we can, if we _try_…" Her voice catches and she has to stop, swallow the tears and collect herself before she can go on. "If we don't turn our backs on each other when it's hard, we'll be okay. I _know_ we'll be okay. But you have to trust me. And I have to trust you."

"Is that possible, love? Can you trust me after the mess I've made?"

"I love you," she says, and a knife twists in his heart, because that's not _yes_.

"I love you, too." His voice catches, and he reaches for her blindly, not caring that she's breaking his heart, not caring that this conversation is so emotionally charged the room might blow. He just needs to feel her in his arms, in this moment, and know that whatever else may happen, they _love_ each other and that's something.

That's everything.

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><p>So we're officially over 50,000 words, which always makes me do a little dance. Thanks for corrupting my definition of success, Nano. I also noticed that the last chapter officially put <em>Lost Souls<em> at a higher review count than _These Nights_, which was sort of cool, so thanks for that. I really do love all of you so much for taking the time to write comments or send me messages. 3


	23. Chapter 23

The storm passes in the night, fast and furious – and gone.

By the time Emma pulls back the curtains, the world is bathed in white, shining almost _too_ brightly. It's pristine and perfect, untouched.

Fresh.

Killian is sitting up in bed, watching her as she stands in front of the windows quietly, her eyes on the still riled ocean, an eternal demon not so easily soothed if there ever was one. Their witching hour conversation hurt her soul, and she knows it isn't easy for him either, but watching the ocean struggle is easier than watching him.

She wants easy back. She wants it _desperately_. She wants to make out in the grocery store while he throws sugary cereals in the cart, and she wants to come home to find him making grilled cheese in his favorite pajama pants. Or no pants at all, because he's done that before, and what a glorious surprise it was.

She doesn't want to be in this silent hotel room with no idea where they go from here.

"The roads should be clear enough soon to go home," she says eventually, still at the window. "Are you…are you coming home? With me?" The last bit is whispered, the strain beginning to show through in spite of her squared shoulders and straight spine.

"Emma, love…"

"No, it's okay." She cuts him off, doesn't want to hear another word. Whatever he's saying, it's not _yes_, and that's all she needs to know. She turns blindly for the bathroom, to fetch her hopefully now-dry jeans and be on her way.

"Emma!" He catches her before she makes it past the bed, his grip on her arm tight. The second he has her, his touch slips around her waist, pulls her close as can be. "I _am_ coming home to you, if I'm welcome." He's earnest, all wide blue eyes and uncertainty in his voice.

"What sort of…" She stops herself, stops the harsh words from coming out, makes herself count to ten. She's frustrated and her temper is on a hair-pin trigger. She's taking it out on him, and while it's not entirely unwarranted, she needs to breathe.

This isn't how they get back to easy.

"Of course you're welcome. I'm angry, Killian, but if there is anything you need to have learned last night, you need to _know_ I love you. I _need_ you. And I want you, desperately." It's a struggle to keep eye contact as she says it, to make the words come out without them getting stuck in her throat or tripping over them. She doesn't want to admit to being desperate about anything, but there's no use in lying to him – he makes her feel needy and wanting and like she could scream if she doesn't have him.

Desperate.

Everything he wants to say has been said, so he doesn't speak. He just takes her into his arms, kisses her, tenderly, reverently, holds her like she's the most precious thing in the world – because she is.

When he lets her go, it's with great difficulty. "I am coming home to you," he repeats, his fingers curling around her hip and holding her body flush with his. "But I must do something first."

"I can wait."

"No, love. I must do this on my own." He takes a deep breath, kissing her cheek, her brow, her hair – soft, light kisses. "I'll be there tonight."

"Okay." She smiles up at him, a tentative smile, but a smile, pressing another kiss to his mouth. "I'm holding you to it."

As she turns away, he pulls her back, still holding her closer than really necessary. "After breakfast."

"Breakfast?"

"Room service. Perk of not staying in a motel." He flashes her a grin, and she can't help but smile back as he reaches for the phone to order up more food than the two of them could possibly eat.

Through a tacit understanding or need, the tension fades as Emma sits on the bed across from him, eating bacon with her fingers, legs crossed and a plate of eggs carefully balanced on her knee. It's not quite easy, the silence heavy, but it's not as emotionally charged as their night, and that will have to do.

After they've eaten, she dresses in her still-damp jeans, shivering in spite of the heavy sweater Killian all but forces on her. There's tenderness in his eyes as he's smoothing the collar into place, pushing her hair out of her eyes and fussing, and it tugs at her, makes her feel loved and cherished and protected.

He surprises her by bringing his things downstairs with them, putting the bag in her car – but only after he's cleared most of the snow from it. It makes her sad, in a way, this big snowstorm and all this snow, and the plans she had for them to play in it.

Instead, Killian is helping her clean off her car.

She doesn't have gloves, but she doesn't care. It doesn't seem right, even with things the way they are between them, to completely miss out on the magic of a foot of snow for the first time in his adult life. So Emma bends down, gathering a thick ball of snow between her burning hands, aims, and smacks him right in the shoulder.

It's the look on his face that sends her into a fit of giggles, a comical degree of surprise.

"Swan…did you just _throw snow_ at me?" She grins, nodding in between her laughter as he turns more fully toward her, scooping up his own handful of snow from the roof of her car. "Did you throw snow at me _while I'm cleaning off your bloody car_?"

He already knows the answer, so she doesn't bother to reply. She just picks up another handful of snow, flinging it at him before she's even really taken the time to form it into a proper snowball. It showers over him, his black clothes and black hair making the icy confetti stand out all the more. Emma takes particular delight in the way it sticks to his beard.

In the end, they're both covered in snow, their clothes damp but their smiles wide. Emma is breathless from ducking and lunging away from him, but she lets him catch her, finally. "Truce," she whispers right before she kisses him, her arms wrapped around his neck and her body pressed tightly to his.

It almost feels like she's not just talking about the snow.

"Aye, the lady knows when she's been beat." He narrowly avoids another handful of snow, but his grin is blissfully happy. "You should head home, love. Get dry. I'll see you shortly."

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll manage."

"Are you sure I can't…"

"I'm sure, love. I promise, tonight."

"If…something changes…you'll tell me?" She hates that she's asking, that she has a nagging doubt he's not going to show up if she lets him out of her sight now, but the question is burning inside of her.

"I have a plan, but yes, should it go awry, I will call you."

"Okay."

She doesn't move right away, lingering in spite of the coolness of the wind from the ocean. Emma knows it's stupid, knows she needs to just believe him, but there's a tiny part of her terrified that she'll get in the car and never see him again.

"Emma?"

"You promise, right? You'll be there, tonight?"

"I will." He gathers her up tightly, holds her close and presses soft kisses to her mouth before releasing her, the ice clinging to his beard making her shiver. "I swear." He holds the car door open for her, the keys in the ignition and the interior toasty warm since he thought to start it when they came out.

"Okay."

"Text me when you get home, please." He leans down, kisses her once more, like it's just as hard for him to step back from her now as it is for her. It makes her feel better, his obvious need to touch her and be close – and the concern in his voice as he asks her to check in.

"I will." She smiles as he closes the door, his eyes nearly as blue as the sky above through the glass. It's hard to put the car in gear, to drive away without him, but she does it. She does it in spite of wanting to ask more questions, wanting to know _more_ about this plan of his.

It's a long, slow drive back to her apartment. The roads are fine in Portland, but the further north she goes along the coast, the more of a mess it proves to be. She frowns to herself, worried about Killian. She has a sneaking suspicion his plan involves him driving himself back – she knows he's determined to prove to her he's working to be better – but this isn't the day for it, in her mind.

If something happens to him, she's never going to forgive herself.

She's grateful Ruby isn't in the apartment when she gets home. Emma doesn't want to relive the emotional conversation right now; she wants to peel off her damp jeans and take a hot shower and drink tea. At least for tonight, she wants to ignore the explanation she's going to provide Ruby and David, the questions that doesn't have all the answers to.

So that's what she does.

But three cups of tea later, Killian still hasn't arrived. She frowns at the fading light outside her windows, nervously checking her phone. He answered when she texted to say she was home, but nothing since.

Her fingers itch to call him, to ask more questions, but she stops herself. If she's going to learn to trust him again, she can't check in constantly.

It's full dark when she hears the scraping of metal on metal in the door, and she looks up with anticipation, holding her breath. Relief floods through her as Killian walks in, his expression one of barely contained excitement.

"Sorry, love." He lets the door fall closed behind him, throws the lock in place and goes to her, bending to kiss her before tugging her to her feet. "Took longer than expected."

"Are you going to tell me what exactly you've been up to?"

He only grins, pulling her to the window and tugging her in front of him, her back to his chest and his arms around her waist. He leans down, his chin on her shoulder, and very quietly asks, "What do you see?"

Emma twists, offering him a puzzled expression. "The street? My car? Snow?"

He chuckles, low in her ear and his hand moves from her waist to the pocket of his coat. She hears the jingling of keys, and it takes a moment when he fishes them out and sets them on the windowsill for her to understand.

"You bought a car?" she guesses, peering more closely out the window. There's a small black SUV parked next to her car she doesn't immediately recognize, but the logo on the keys match the brand of the car.

"Drove the whole way here in it." He grins, nodding out the window. "Supposed to be very safe, that."

"No more walking to work?"

"No more walking to work," he confirms, pulling her away from the window and into his arms. "More importantly, love, no more of you waiting up, worried, that I've been walking to and from work." He frowns, his eyebrows knitting together tightly. "That's assuming I've still got the job with Red."

"There's that." Emma ignores the problem for the time being – she's pretty sure Ruby has no intention of firing him, despite everything. She stretches up to kiss him, light and soft kisses that make her feel safe in his arms. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

"Aye, I did." He stops her with another kiss, swallowing whatever protest she's about to make. "It began as something I was doing for you, love, but in the end, it's something I needed to do for myself, too. To heal. To be a better man, a man who might deserve you."

"Killian…"

"I'm in, Swan. I know I ran when I should have stayed, and I know I've made you this promise before, but I'm in, as long as you'll have me. Perhaps it's a bit presumptuous, but…" He digs in his jacket pocket again, and Emma shakes her head at him in amusement.

"Got a bottomless pit in there?" she teases, curious more than anything as he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Stick your hand in and find out." He waggles his brows at her, making her laugh.

This is what she missed, the ease, the banter, the innuendo. She slides her hand down his side like she's going to take him up on his offer, but at the last moment lets her hand fall lower, until her fingers dip into the pocket of his jeans.

His breath catches as her touch lingers, not where he really wants it, but close enough to make him lose his train of thought. It's a great deal of effort on his part to uncrumple what turns out to be a business card and hold it out to her. "Spent some time at the bank today, what with the purchase I made. Got to talking to this chap."

"A real estate agent?" Emma takes the card from him in shock, smoothing it out and studying the carefully printed details. "What has that got to do with…" It clicks into place suddenly, and her gaze snaps from the card to his face. "Are you…"

"I told you there was a lawsuit and money from life insurance. I spent less of it than I assumed, but then again, the establishments I favored those years I spent wandering about weren't of the high class sort." He smirks, more at himself than anything, but Emma can't take her eyes off him, can't quite make herself grasp what it is that he's saying.

"So…you want…"

"Only if you do." He licks him bottom lip, a nervous gesture that only softens her heart more towards him. "I'm happy to stay here, should you prefer it. I only thought…"

"Yes, I want," Emma cuts in, her arms wrapping around his neck as she stretches to kiss him, a kiss filled with emotion and need, her fingers gripping the soft hairs on the back of his neck as she presses closer. "I definitely want," she repeats as they separate, her breaths erratic and her pulse racing.

"It's a fresh start, love. Something that's ours, together."

"You're not going to propose now, too, right? Because that would be too much." She blurts it out before she can stop herself, slamming her palm over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I just…"

But he's laughing, quietly, a tender expression in his eyes. "No, love. When I ask, there will be no misunderstanding the question." It's a promise, and one she believes in just by the conviction in his voice. But he grows more serious, cradles her cheek in his palm, and brushes a soft kiss against her lips. "I want to marry you, Emma…one day. But you've taught me that if we're to heal, if we're to be better people, we start with our home. I don't want to live in your apartment – I want us to live in _our_ home. I want to bicker over paint colors and furniture." She shoots him a doubtful look, but his grin only widens. "You're lovely when you're in a state," he teases.

Emma huffs and rolls her eyes, but she can't stop the smile that's taking over her features, the way her heart clenches in her chest. This man has nearly been her downfall, but she would go through it all over again – she would take every ounce of pain again – just to feel as loved as she does in this moment.

"Okay," she whispers, stroking her hand over his cheek, along his jaw, his beard tickling her skin. "I'm in, too."


	24. Chapter 24

David isn't at work when Emma arrives the next day, but she takes it as a peace offering from the universe. It's been a rough few days, in spite of the happiness she still feels every time she thinks about that crumpled up business card.

David will come around, eventually. But she knows it won't be easy – he can't stand to see her hurt.

And Killian hurt her – badly.

She keeps her head down and does her work, catching up on paperwork she neglected in her state over Killian the last week. It's strange when it gets to be midday and David still hasn't showed up, but Emma shrugs it off. She hasn't exactly been keeping up the last week or so – maybe he's gone to a doctor's appointment with Mary Margaret.

Just after two, Ruby texts her. _Better come down here_. Emma stares at her phone in puzzlement, wondering why Ruby hasn't elaborated, but it only takes seconds for her to piece together it's got something to do with Killian.

A part of her is annoyed. They're trying to put all the worry behind them, trying to have a fresh start, and he's gotten himself into some sort of bind barely twenty four hours later that has Ruby requesting she come look after him.

But she's also worried. Ruby wouldn't request her presence without good reason.

Emma sighs, grabbing her keys and hurrying out into the cold. The Rabbit Hole isn't far, and she never managed to grab lunch. She'll go see what mess he's made, she'll swing by Granny's for a sandwich, and then she'll go back to work. Easy enough.

She's shocked to walk into the bar and find not only Killian sitting on a stool, but David too. They've both got drinks in front of them, and they're _laughing_.

"What the hell?" she mutters to herself, looking around for Ruby. _This_ is what the cryptic text was all about? David and Killian getting along?

Ruby pops up from behind the bar, her eyes instantly meeting Emma's. "Hello, Blondie," she calls, her voice filled with contempt as her gaze travels to the two men before her.

They go silent almost instantly, but neither of them turns to look at her. Aggravated, she stomps across the bar, fully prepared to launch into a tirade about David drinking in a bar while she's at work, and Ruby calling her down here to witness it.

That's when she notices the bags of ice. Killian is holding one to his face, and David's got his hand on the bar, ice on his knuckles. "You didn't." Her glare falls on David first, but Killian isn't spared. "Tell me you did not get into a fight in Ruby's bar."

"It's all right, love. We've had a chat and all's well." Killian smiles brightly at her, but the effect is ruined by his eye being nearly swollen shut, a deep purple bruise already forming under the ice he's holding to his cheek.

"You two are idiots." Ruby glares behind the bar at each of them in turn before her attention turns to Emma. "Killian told him to hit him." She nods at David, her expression only hardening. "And he was stupid enough to do it."

Emma bites down on her lip, struggling to keep calm. "Of all the stupid things…" She sighs, lifting the ice on David's hand to examine his bruised knuckles (none too gently). "You're supposed to be better than this," she scolds him, but she's too tired to put any real fire behind it. "And _you._"

"It's just a scratch," Killian protests, in spite of his wince as she takes the ice from him to examine the damage. "Your brother hits like a girl."

"Say another word and you're going to find out exactly what it's like to be hit by a girl." Emma's tone is flat, but he can see it in her eyes – he's just about pushed her to the breaking point, and that isn't at all what he intended.

It seemed so simple as it was happening. David walked into the bar, and Killian made him an offer. One clear shot, get it out of his system. Then they could move on, for Emma's sake.

He hadn't _really_ believed David would take him up on the offer, but man of his word, Killian stood there and let himself be punched. The ridiculousness of the situation wasn't lost on either of them in the aftermath, and they'd found themselves actually _laughing_ together.

At least until Ruby came out to investigate the source of the commotion. She's railed at both of them, dispensing ice and lectures before disappearing with her phone.

"Can I take him home?" Emma asks Ruby the question, pointedly ignoring Killian's sputtering protest. He shuts up quickly when she turns on him, green eyes glittering dangerously.

"Take them both. Fighting in my bar. No respect." Ruby offers both men another blistering glare before turning her attention back to Emma. "I'll call you later. We need a girl's night. Or something. Without _them_."

"Sounds great. Thanks for calling." Emma smiles at Ruby, but her expression instantly hardens as she turns to her brother. "I will talk to you _later_. At _work_. When you're done punching people and drinking."

Both Killian and David have the grace to look properly chastised.

"You." Emma turns back to her boyfriend, and it's a struggle not to laugh now, because he just looks so damn ashamed of himself. It's almost pathetic, the blossoming black eye, his hint of a blush, all mixed up with the face of a man she loves dearly.

But it will do him some good to feel like an idiot a little bit longer.

Emma jerks her head toward the door, heading out without waiting for him. He follows, exchanging a glance with David on the way. They're both in the doghouse now, and it's something they share besides their love of Emma.

"Think of it as a bonding exercise," Killian suggests as she pushes him down on the couch before going to rummage through the medicine cabinet.

"You think my brother giving you a black eye is a _bonding_ exercise?" Emma can't do anything other than stare at him incredulously when she reappears, her hands filled with antiseptic ointment, disinfectant and gauze. "What is _wrong_ with you two? What even possessed you to tell him to hit you?"

Killian shrugs, eyeing the bottle of rubbing alcohol with some unease as Emma uncaps it and splashes a generous amount onto a pad of gauze. "He wanted to. Seemed best to just get it over with."

"_I_ want to hit you right now," she grumbles, pressing the gauze to the small gash under his eye where David's knuckles split the skin. Killian winces, the air hissing through his lips, but he stays still under her watchful gaze. "Sorry," she adds, but it doesn't much sound like she means it.

"Emma." Killian wraps his fingers gently around her wrist, pushing her hand away from his face. "He wants to protect you, love. I understand the feeling – I understand it quite well. I know it doesn't make much sense to you, but I would do it again, truly. Your brother and I are all right now."

"Just like that."

Killian shrugs, letting her wrist go. "Mostly."

"You're an idiot. You're _both_ idiots."

"Aye." He offers her that little boy grin that makes her soften every damn time, and it works like a charm. He waits, patiently, while she finishes tabbing the ointment on his cheek, but then he pulls her into her arms, kissing her lightly. All she can smell is the medicinal antiseptic, but she kisses him anyway.

"What were you guys talking about when I got there?" she asks as they separate, turning to clean up the mess she's left on the arm of the couch. She holds out a fresh bag of ice, frowning at his eye as he presses it gingerly to the swollen flesh. "You seemed awfully…friendly."

"Cars. I hadn't had a chance to tell you about the salesman. Dreadful man."

"My brother punched you. And then you were talking about cars."

"Aye."

She can't help it – she laughs. She laughs so hard tears start streaming from her eyes, because this has got to be the single most ridiculous thing that has happened to her in recent years.

Killian just stares at her, his one good eye plainly puzzled. "Emma…"

"I have to go." She sighs, pressing a kiss to her cheek (the one that isn't bruised) and pressing lightly on his shoulder. "You should apologize to Ruby."

"I suppose I should."

"I'll be home in a few hours. Please try not to get in anymore fights before then."

"I'll be a good boy, Swan. Promise." He tugs her back, pulling her nearly onto his lap before kissing her with a great deal most lust than she bargained for. It's hard to pull away from him, to remind herself she needs to return to work.

She still has David to deal with.

"Not _too_ good," he calls after her as she turns for the door, a devilish smirk pulling at his lips. "Might need to bring the handcuffs home."

"Good_bye_, Killian." Emma rolls her eyes, yanking the door shut tight behind her. She only lets herself smile once she's in the hallway, shaking her head to herself as she makes her way down the hall.

She doesn't really understand this behavior, but she knows he's done this for her. It's a strange way of showing his love, and she _really_ wishes he hadn't done this, but it's oddly touching.

It's also incredibly irritating.

She's angrier with David than she is with Killian, truthfully. It's not impossible for her to sort out why it is that Killian felt the need to offer himself up to David like this, what with his guilt complex and David's temper. But David is supposed to know better, to be the one who holds it together – he's the goddamn Sheriff.

Emma debates calling Mary Margaret on her way back to the station. Whatever she says to David will be far more effective – and worse – than anything Emma can say. But she's pregnant and she has enough to worry about, so Emma will just have to handle this one on her own.

David is waiting for her when she walks into the station. He looks properly ashamed of himself, but Emma isn't entirely convinced. She walks past him, into one of the small conference rooms, and stands by the door, waiting.

"Em, I'm sorry. He offered, and I was just so angry, and I thought it would make me feel better." He pauses, sliding into a chair and shrugging. "It worked."

"I love you both," she says slowly, rubbing her fingers wearily against her forehead. "I do, really. And you're both idiots. But, c'mon, David. We're not teenagers anymore. You can't just go around hitting guys who piss you off."

"He hurt you." He says it simply, like it should explain everything, and she can see that for him, it does. "I warned him, you know. One of the nights you weren't around at the Rabbit Hole. I told him if he hurt you, he would have me to deal with."

"Well, you've dealt with him now. So you're done, right? No more punching people." Emma falls into a chair across from him, exhausted from this entire day. "I don't have the energy for this, David. You're supposed to help me, support me. Instead, you're making it worse."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." He reaches across the table, covering her hand with his and squeezing. "You're right. I shouldn't have."

"Of course I'm right," she grumbles at him, but it's a relief to have him apologize, to know this is really going to be the end of it. "I love him, David. I'm forgiving him. We're working on it."

"Do you…do you want to talk about it?" He asks the question tentatively, his eyes falling to his scraped and bruised knuckles. "I know I'm probably not your favorite person right now, but I can listen. I mean, hell, you can hit me if you want."

"No one is hitting anyone else!" She says it with a smile, because she knows he's teasing, and there's a tiny part of her that understands why he did it when Killian offered. "No, I don't."

"All right, Em." He starts to get to his feet, flexing his hand. "If you change your mind…"

"He wants us to buy a house together," she blurts out, blushing as David stares at her. "He has some money, from his accident and life insurance policies. I've got some saved. So he wants us to buy a house. Together." She looks up from the table, where she's been making a careful examination of the coffee stain. "He wants to marry me, David." The last bit is a whisper, a secret she's been holding close to her heart, but she wants him to know, now. She wants him to understand that a part of her is still angry, and hurt, but she's _in_ this.

"He proposed?"

"No, not yet. But he said he wants to marry me." Emma runs her index finger over her left ring finger, her thoughts drifting to a ring and white dress and Killian waiting for her at the end of an aisle strewn with flowers.

"And you?" David asks the question softly, and for a second, she's remembering their conversation that day in the car, the day she told him she was falling for Killian – falling hard.

"I want it. I want all of it." She takes a shaky breath, but it feels good to say the words out loud, to admit to someone else what she's barely begun to admit to herself – she wants forever with this man. Her emotions are at war with each other, struggling to trust him, but in spite of that, _knowing_ she wants forever with him.

It's exhausting. But it's also the surest she's ever been about a man.

"Then I hope you get it." David squeezes her hand, coming around the conference table and sitting down in the empty chair next to her. "I'm really sorry, Em."

"I know." She shakes her head, smiling wryly. "He's stupid sometimes, ya know? But he does these dumb things because he's trying to prove things to me. I think this was about proving that he knows he's made a mistake and he'll take his licks."

"Men in love are usually pretty stupid." David smiles that tiny smile of his, the one he usually wears when he's thinking about his wife. "Mary Margaret could tell you plenty of the stupid things I've done."

"I _know_ most of the stupid things you've done."

"That you do." He sighs, getting to his feet and gingerly shaking out his hand. "Go home, Emma. It's the least I can do. Go be with him."

"You're sure?" It's a half-hearted question at best. She's already getting to her feet, pulling her keys from her pocket.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He holds her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and Emma knows he's not just talking about her leaving.

"Thanks." She kisses his cheek impulsively, hugging him before turning for the door.

When she gets home, Killian is making grilled cheese in his favorite pajama pants. It's so simple, and it's not even about her, but it's _perfect_. She sneaks up behind him, her icy hands coming around his waist as she presses a kiss to his shoulder blade.

"I love you," she tells him, quiet, thoughtful. "And when you're ready to ask, you should know I already have an answer. I want forever with you."

"Even with the black eye?"

"Even with the black eye." He turns in her arms, and she stretches up, pressing a gentle kiss on his bruised cheek. The swelling has come down some, but the bruise is darkening, the flesh under his eye an angry purple.

She runs her hands over his chest, smiling to herself at the shiver that runs through him at her touch. She's positive it's not just her cold hands that cause his reaction, and she stretches to kiss him again, the heat of his skin seeping through her thin shirt.

His arm falls to her waist, his hand gathering a fistful of her hair as he pulls her closer, the kiss deepening. He kisses her with hunger, his _want_ obvious as his beard rasps against her skin.

It's only the scent of burning bread that breaks them apart.

Killian curses, grabbing the pan and quickly moving it to another burner. The bread is mostly charred, and he sighs with exaggerated weariness at Emma. "I suppose I do owe you a dinner date, love."

"I don't need dates."

"No, I don't suppose you do." He takes her back into his arms, brushing the hair out of her eyes and kissing her sweetly. "But you deserve them." He's so serious as he says it, she can't help but go along with it, especially when he kisses her again, a deep kiss filled with longing. She can tell it's a struggle for him to release her, even as he says, "You can have the shower first."

"We could have the shower together."

"How scandalous, Swan. We haven't even had our first date." He's grinning again, that shit-eating grin that is somehow infectious, and she can't help but laugh, especially when he gives her bottom a good squeeze before releasing her.

"I don't have sex on first dates," she calls back as she starts toward the bathroom, unable to suppress her smile. "You should know that!"

"Aye, neither do I!" he shouts after her, but she hears him laughing until the sound of the water drowns him out.

* * *

><p>Tip of the day: Highland Park scotch + St. Germaine liqueur is an excellent writing drink. If I missed any typos, we'll just go ahead and blame the scotch.<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

Emma likes driving Killian's car. It's shiny and new and has heated seats.

It doesn't make any of the strange noises the bug makes.

He doesn't like driving when she's in the car, still. On occasion, he's done it – but only across town. When they go further, like down to the Home Depot in Portland, she drives.

She sees him getting tense, his hand balling into a fist, his eyes snapping shut and his breath sucking in through his teeth suddenly. And when she sees it, she slides her hand across the console, squeezes his thigh, and smiles.

His breathing evens out.

"Are we really doing this?" she asks as they pull into the parking lot, the bright orange letters welcoming her with a shiver of nerves. "We haven't even found a place."

He shrugs, visibility relieved when she pulls into a parking spot. The tension drains out of him, the easy grin she loves appearing. "We're not going to buy anything, love. It's meant to be fun, if I recall. This being your idea and all."

She grimaces, mentally kicking herself. This _was_ her idea – and it seemed like a good one at the time. Killian's idea to look for a house was romantic, but there is nothing romantic about sifting through hundreds of listings, bickering.

She wants to live with him, she does. And when they started looking, she told herself she didn't care so much about the house, as long as they live in it together.

But she really wants to stay in this town. And have a fireplace. David's mom had a fireplace, and he's got one, and there's just something so damn _cozy_ about a fireplace.

Killian wants to be by the water.

These shouldn't be difficult things to find in their small Maine town, but they are. Killian has more money than she does to put toward the house, but between the two of them, it's not a huge sum. Enough to buy something small, comfortable – neither of them want to take on the sort of project Mary Margaret and David did.

So far, the houses for sale are huge and out of their price range…or small, dilapidated properties that need to be torn down or have years spent restoring.

Emma doesn't begrudge him his desire for the water – she understands it. The water to him is what the fireplace is to her: home. She's had a lifetime of dreaming of a house of her own…and just as long to be _certain_ it wasn't in the cards for her.

So now that it's in her grasp, now that it's possibly real, there _has_ to be a fireplace. And Killian has to be near the ocean. Because he's got a lifetime of hopes and dreams going into this house, too.

It's a lot of pressure to put on fifteen hundred square feet.

So in a fit of frustration, Emma told him just that.

"I'm _tired_ of 'lots of charm' and 'you have to see it' descriptions, Killian! It's code for _run down_ and _there is no photo that makes this place look appealing_! This is supposed to be fun." She sighs, tossing the tablet onto the couch cushion next to her. "We're supposed to fight over _paint_, not all this other crap."

Killian rubs her arm, trying for soothing. He's not really fighting with her over anything – his one veto is on places more than a few miles from the water. Emma is the one who doesn't like painted cabinets or "weird" layouts.

"Can we do that?" she asks, her head falling back to his shoulder as she stares up at him with wide, green eyes filled with hope. "Can we go to Home Depot tomorrow and look at paint colors? We've got the day off. It could be fun."

"Of course, love." He drops a kiss on her forehead, then another one her cheek, and another on her nose. She's smiling by the time he gets to her mouth, turning into his arms and curling against him.

So here they are in the parking lot of Home Depot.

"Shall we?" He gestures toward the massive store.

"We don't even know what the house is going to look like. Maybe this was a mistake."

"Swan, you're in need of some amusement. That's the point, love – we don't know where we'll be. So there's no pressure to pick the perfect color for the parlor – we don't know what the bloody thing looks like."

"No one says parlor. Our house isn't going to have a _bloody_ parlor."

"You're quite miserable at that."

"I know." Emma grins up at him, stretching to kiss him. "You love me anyway."

"That I do."

He grabs her hand as they walk to the door, tugging her close. His whisper is conspiratorial, and she can't see it, but she just _knows_ he's got that smirk on his face. "I should warn you, Swan. I'm quite partial to red."

"We are not painting a single room in our house red."

"What's wrong with red? It's a bright, vibrant color."

Emma lifts her eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips even as she leans into him, his arm around her shoulder a welcome weight. "Don't think I'll be taking my eyes off you for a second in there."

"I would despair if you did, love." Her glare only makes him laugh, tugging her closer to press a quick kiss to her cheek.

"Pick whatever you fancy," he tells her when they arrive at the admittedly intimidating wall of paint samples, the cards and books and possibilities stretching endlessly before them in a variety of lighting. "Don't think about it – just choose as you like."

"What about you?"

"I will do the same."

She knows he's up to something purely by the grin he offers her, but she just shrugs. "All right."

He wanders off to the other side of the display and Emma has to resist the urge to keep her promise to watch him like a hawk, but there's something tempting about just picking pretty things. So that's what she does, her fingers sliding tentatively over the paint chips. Before long, she's accumulated a stack of them in soft grays, misty greens and gentle blues. They're the colors of the ocean – and they remind her of Killian.

She feels him behind her, the solidness of his chest just inches from her back. She leans into him, the soft hairs of his beard tickling her ear as he leans down to murmur in her ear. "Find anything you favor?"

"Way more than we'll ever need." She holds up her stack of colors, fanning them out for his inspection. "I figured these might work just about anywhere. They make me think of the sea."

His eyes soften as she turns to face him, and in spite of the other shoppers milling about, he tucks his own paint samples under his arm, freeing up his fingers to cup her cheek and kiss her. "You are a treasure," he says quietly, for her ears only.

She smiles back at him, the weight of the emotion in his gaze tugging at her, making a blush rise in her cheeks. It's one thing for him to be like this when they're alone, to say these things to her, but there's other people around.

It's never been like this with any of the men she's dated – other _men_ haven't been like this. She takes the knowledge, tucks it away to hold close to her heart on the days when it's not so easy, when it's hard, when it's not just them in this little bubble of happiness.

"What did you find?" She looks pointedly at the stack of paint samples he's got tucked under his arm, curious more than anything. Are their tastes even remotely the same? Is this _actually_ going to be an argument?

"Oh, a few things." He chuckles, a low noise that sends shivers down her spine as he grabs the handful and holds them out to her. "I'd be much obliged to hear your thoughts, love."

He holds the colors out to her, an array of fire engines and peppers and hot sauces and _reds_. Her eyes fly up to his face, but that's when she sees it – the twitch of his lips, the mirth dancing in his gaze.

"You can't be serious."

His eyes go wide with innocence, the smile slowly winning. "Do you mean to tell me I can't have even just _one_?"

"Not in those colors. Those colors are….awful, Killian. They're just…I am not having a house painted up like a fast food place or a… a scene from a horror movie!"

He laughs so hard at her sputtering indignation he nearly drops the samples all over the floor. "The…look…on…your…face…"

She freezes in place, her eyes narrowing at him as he struggles to catch his breath, to stop laughing like a fool in the middle of the aisle. "You don't actually want red paint, do you?"

He shakes his head, managing to get control of himself – barely – and straighten to his full height. He drops the stack of red samples into the bin a few feet away, turning back to her to sweep his hand into her hair. "Emma, we can paint the walls whatever colors you please. It doesn't matter to me. I just want to be there with you."

"And by the ocean," she tacks on wryly, remembering their seemingly endless internet searches.

"And by the ocean," he agrees, massaging her scalp lightly where he's threaded his fingers through her hair. She leans into his touch, her eyes sliding shut for a fraction of a second with a small noise of contentment.

With a sigh of regret, she steps out of his hold and gestures to the rest of the store. "Want to look at stuff we don't even know if we need yet while we're here?"

"Sounds delightful." He takes her hand, entwining their fingers as she heads in the direction of the appliances. They spend the next hour or two wandering through the aisles, Emma's fingers running over lamps and faucets and fixtures while they aimlessly make plans for the sort of home they're going to find, one day.

"You were right," she tells him as they get into the car to head home. "It was nice to do this, no pressure over finding things to fit a place, but just looking."

"Of course I was right." He flashes her a grin even as she swats his arm. He catches her wrist the second time she tries it, pressing a kiss to her palm. His eyes lock on hers, and something shifts in them, the playfulness giving way to a burning desire.

It's been two weeks, and they still haven't had sex. They made this (ridiculous, regrettable, foolish) agreement that they would go on dates, start over, before they had sex again. It seemed romantic at the time they agreed, to get back to the simple pleasures of their relationship, to enjoy just kissing each other, but the last few days, it's become downright torture to be around him.

"This could count as a date, you know," she says slowly, her eyes on his lips and where they hover over her skin. "That would make four. We agreed on four dates."

"We did agree on four dates. But Home Depot is hardly a date." His protest sounds half-hearted at best, even to himself. Four dates didn't seem like that long when they agreed, but between their work schedules and the house hunting frustrations, they've only managed three so far.

"We can stop for dinner. Dinner is a date." Emma's breath catches in her throat as his lips brush over the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, his nose skimming along the fragile skin. She can feel her heart thrumming in her chest, lust racing through her veins.

"You'll be the death of me, Swan."

"It will be a good death." She offers him a saucy smirk, reclaiming her hand and turning the key in the ignition. "Dinner. Home. Naked. That's how this is going to go."

He shifts in his seat, tugging at his jeans as she backs out of the parking spot. "As you wish." It thrills her to hear the hoarseness of his voice, to see him adjusting his clothes in a fairly useless effort to ease the obvious strain on his zipper.

Emma turns her head just slightly, trying to hide her smile. She shouldn't take pleasure in this (it's taking all of her self control not to squeeze her thighs together herself) but this was _his_ idea. He can suffer a little.

It's tempting to skip dinner, to go straight home and say the hell with it, but she knows this has gotten to be more about Killian keeping his word than the actual dates. He told her he wanted to take his time – he told her he wanted to prove to her he's not just in it for the sex, enjoyable as it is. He _promised_ her a fresh start, and he's determined to give it to her.

Doesn't mean she can't have a little bit of fun with him along the way. That's what this day is about, after all – fun.

Dinner is torturous. Emma knows full well she's only got herself to blame by making it worse. When he makes his usual innuendo-laced comments, she doesn't laugh or roll her eyes like she usually does – she licks her lip or leans forward across the table, holding his stare.

"You are a bloody minx," he growls in her ear as they walk out to the car, his hand possessive on her hip. They stop on the driver's side, the keys in Emma's hand. She only grins up at him, pleased to just _once_ have the upper hand with him. He's usually the one with the smug smile, the one who just _knows_ he's making her crazy, but it's her turn tonight.

"We'll be home soon."

"I am sorely tempted to have you right here," he whispers in her ear, voice full of promise. Emma starts to laugh, but it's suddenly not very funny as he hauls her body forward, his hips pressing into hers even as he backs her up against the car. The parking lot is dark, and he takes full advantage of the relative isolation, blazing a trail of damp kisses down her throat that make the cold winter air barely noticeable.

His lips meet hers in a blaze of heat, needy, insistent kisses that have her pulse thudding in her ears, make her acutely aware of every inch of her body. "Get in the car, Emma." The words are low, dangerous with warning, the sound of a man very close to losing a tenuous grip on his control.

"You get in the car, Killian." She offers him the same smug look he likes to give her, holding his gaze with innocent, wide eyes. It almost works, but he can feel her, her body shaking ever so slightly, and it's enough that he only smirks before capturing her in another searing kiss.

_Then_ he gets in the car.

It takes her full effort to keep her concentration on driving. She knows he won't keep up their game in the car, no matter how heated things get, but it's a struggle to remember that, to not let her hand slide over his thigh. Luckily, they're not far from home.

The door isn't even closed behind them when he gives in, spinning her around and pressing her to the door as he kisses her with all the desperation of a starving man. He _is_ starving, starving for the feel of her body welcoming his, the slide of her skin against his, the way her breath catches right before she tumbles over the edge…he needs _all_ of it.

Emma reaches blindly behind her, fumbling for the deadbolt. As soon as she hears it click into place, she drops the keys on the floor, hitching her legs around his hips and holding on for dear life. It's impossible to bite back the moan that rises in her throat as he tilts his hips into hers, using the leverage the door affords to press exactly where she needs him.

She doesn't care if they make it to the bed, or to the floor, or anywhere. She'll gladly let him have her right here, against the door, for anyone walking down the hall to hear.

Killian has other plans.

He backs away from the door, his fingers splayed across her bottom as he turns for the bedroom, bumping into furniture and walls as they go. Emma can't help but laugh every time, and she can feel his lips curling into a smile when she does.

They fall into bed together, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothes. It's a frenzy of lips and hands as they undress each other, one savage kiss after another, but everything slows down as he plunges into her, holding himself still for several long seconds to simply savor the sensation.

"I love you so damn much," he tells her, reaching for her hand with his and twining their fingers together. Her response is lost in their kiss, slower this time as he begins to move, long, deep strokes that slowly wind her tighter and tighter. His grip tightens on her hand, and she squeezes, the nails of her other hand digging into his back.

It isn't long before he hears that catch in her breath, her eyes sliding shut and her lips parting as she moans with the pleasure of her release. It's enough to give him that last push over the edge, his arms shaking with the effort as he struggles to not let his weight collapse on her.

"Killian," she whispers, still breathless as he slides to the mattress beside her, releasing her hand only to wrap his arms around her. "I need to tell you something."

"Mmm?"

"I'm never going two weeks without this again."

He picks his head up from the pillow, a slow smile curling his lips. "Swan, you don't have to go two bloody minutes." Her shriek of laughter is lost as he rolls her onto her back, his breaths still coming in pants. His hand slides down her waist, brushing over the inside of her thigh before coming into contact with the place that makes her laughter turn to moans.

"I need to tell you something else," she mumbles as she curls into his chest, after they've exhausted themselves a second time. Her palm runs along his abs, fingers curling around his waist.

"Anything, love."

"This is my favorite of our dates."

He chuckles, running his fingers through her hair and reaching to pull the blankets up around them. "Mine too."

* * *

><p>This chapter would have gone up much sooner if not for Tumblr. Tumblr is both amazing and terrible. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

The sky is gun metal gray when they get out of the car, the scent of snow heavy in the air. The wind drops off as Killian's hand slides into hers, and for a split second, she can hear the crash of waves. She knows it's not far, just on the other side of the trees, a rocky, jagged coastline that's far from the soft sand beach she envisioned when Killian said he wanted to be close to the water.

But it suits them – and it makes living this close to the water more affordable.

"This is it." Emma's so sure of herself as they stare down the walk. The stone is crumbling in places, and weeds are sprouting, but the sprawling porch at the end of the stone needs little more than a coat of paint.

"I can smell the sea." He drops her hand, sliding behind her and pulling her back against his chest, his arm snaking around her waist. "The real estate agent should just be another moment, and then we can have a look inside."

"We saw the pictures online. It's perfect, Killian. There's a fireplace. We're by the ocean. The only thing wrong with it is some ugly paint. And weeds," she tacks on, nodding toward the crumbling walkway. "David could help me fix the walk in a weekend."

"Or we could do it together." Emma smiles, leaning her head back on his shoulder to meet his eyes, vibrant blue against the angry sky. She hums her agreement, her eyes sliding shut as his lips brush against hers.

The crunch of the gravel driveway announces the relator's arrival, and Emma has to remind herself to breathe normally as they make their way up to the front door. It's an old house, but well cared for, with a broad door and a wide porch. She's already picturing sitting out here, wrapped in a blanket with Killian on cool autumn nights, or lounging on hot summer days.

She barely hears a word the real estate agent says, comments about original wood floors and the age of the furnace. Emma doesn't care. This is their house. She can feel it in her bones, even with the layer of grime that's accumulated since the previous owners moved out. She got out of the car, and she just _knew_.

Standing in the living room in front of the fireplace is the final knot in the rope. Someone painted the brick white years ago, and it's chipped in places, but Emma loves it. It's dinged and scraped, but it's still _beautiful_.

She lets Killian roam through the rest of the house with the realtor, asking questions she should probably be paying attention to but isn't. Her fingers are trailing over the windows, the molding around the doors. She's picturing them living here already, the way the scent of the wood smoke will blend with the ocean when she gets out of the car on cold nights, how it will be warm and cozy inside with Killian.

The last room they come to is the master bedroom. It's not huge – it's a small house, more of a cottage, really – but it's bigger than the apartment. She remembers from the pictures online there was a window seat, but it's even better in person. The way the house is built into the hill, if she squints, she can just barely see the ocean over the treetops.

"On clear days, the view is much better," the real estate agent supplies helpfully, noticing the way Emma's eyes fixate on the view.

"Killian…" Her voice trails off, lost for words. There's more than a good cleaning and some ugly paint as they walk around, chipped light fixtures and broken tiles here and there, but none of it is a huge project. It's all manageable, and under the grime, she can see it – their _home_.

"I'll give you two a minute." The realtor disappears down the stairs, leaving Emma alone with Killian.

She can already feel the tightness in her throat, but when he meets her gaze, the tears well up, because he's got that look – love and tenderness and _joy_. "This is our house." Her voice is a garbled whisper, hoarse and choked, but she's smiling and holding her hand out to him.

"You're certain?" He takes her hand, kisses her palm. His eyes are so serious, hopeful, and it takes her a beat to realize what's going on.

He's not just asking about the house – the weight in his gaze is too heavy to be just the house. He's asking about so much more, and it's taken weeks and months to get here, but she's never been so certain of anything in her life.

"I'm positive."

Outside, the snow has started to fall. Killian wraps his arms around her, pulls her close as he kisses her hair and watches the flakes drift down from the sky. His eyes slip closed, and he gives a silent prayer of thanks to whatever power has granted him this life with Emma, this chance at a family and a _home_.

Five weeks and three days later, it's theirs.

With the previous owner no longer living there, things have moved faster than they could have ever hoped. They spend a few weeks moving slowly, taking boxes over to the house and painting and cleaning before returning to the apartment, exhausted.

But on a dreary February weekend, it's all done. The paint has dried, the house has been cleaned, and the last of their things have been moved in, with the help of David and Ruby and a few of the guys they work with.

Mary Margaret, much to her displeasure, is strictly prohibited from doing anything other than unpacking boxes in the kitchen, her stomach swelling under her sweater. Emma smiles in spite of her sister in law's obvious irritation; David's happiness is catching.

"It's nice to see you and my brother getting along," she tells Killian once everyone has (finally) left. They're on the floor in front of the fire, a bottle of champagne and two coffee mugs beside them. There's still a mountain of boxes to unpack, but that's tomorrow's problem. For tonight, Emma is perfectly happy where she is, Killian's head in her lap and her fingers carding his messy hair with both their legs stretched toward the fire.

"We've come to an understanding."

"Uh huh."

Killian grows serious, his fingers curling around her wrist. "We both love you, Emma. It's an excellent bond to share."

She leans down, her hair falling around them like a soft curtain as she kisses him. He hums with contentment as she resumes her caressing, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp. The fire pops, shooting up a column of sparks, but neither of them so much as flinch.

Killian reaches for his mug of champagne, nudging Emma into picking up hers. "A toast, Swan, to us and our new home. Cheers." He clinks his mug against hers lightly, taking a sip from it before settling back into her lap, his eyes on the fire.

The words are simple, but his hand on her knee tracing absent patterns, her fingers in his hair, it's what she's dreamed of. They haven't bothered turning on any of the other lights (they're still not quite sure where all the switches are) but the firelight bathes them in a soft glow.

"Cheers," Emma echoes into the quiet room, sipping from the mug and watching Killian watch the fire. It's not hard to grow drowsy, from the warmth of the room, from the champagne, from Killian's relaxed form sprawled out in front of her, his chest rising and falling steadily with his breathing. But she can't take her eyes off him.

"I can feel you staring, love," he says eventually, but his tone is light, teasing. "If you want to ravage me, you should just get on with it."

"I love you," she says instead, her palm cupping his jaw as her thumb trails over his bottom lip. "I love our home, and I love you for wanting this, with me, and I…I love you."

He kisses the fingers still hovering by his lips before sitting up and collecting their mugs. He gets to his feet, reaching back for her and tugging her after him. "Come to bed, love."

She groans, suddenly remembering the stack of boxes waiting for them upstairs. "Crap, I forgot to make the bed earlier. We have to find the sheets and get them out and…oh."

Their bedroom doesn't have a single box in it. The bed is made, Emma's favorite quilt spread across it, with candles burning on the nightstands. Curtains have been hung, and soft rugs protect her bare feet from the coolness of the wood floor.

It's perfect.

"How…" Emma runs her fingers over the soft quilt, staring around in wonder.

"Mary Margaret helped me, when you went with Red to fetch coffee." He smiles a shy, little boy smile that tugs at her heart. "I wanted you to have a peaceful room to retire to, even tonight. Especially tonight."

"Ruby knew, didn't she?"

He grins, gathering her up in his arms at the foot of the bed. "She makes a fine accomplice."

"_That's_ why she insisted we go to that place. She kept going on and on about this one drink they only have there, and how she had a craving for it. That was her keeping me out of the house."

"Aye."

"Using my friends against me. Very sneaky."

"I am an excellent sneak."

"Mmm." Emma hums her agreement in spite of her arched brow. Her hands rest lightly on his chest, but she lets them slide down, falling to the waist of his jeans. Without fail, his breath catches, his hips almost involuntarily pressing toward hers, and Emma smiles. "Not so sneaky now."

She shrieks with laughter when she finds herself unceremoniously (and quite quickly) lifted and tossed onto the bed, pillows scattering everywhere as he crawl over her. "Where did all these pillows come from?" she asks as he settles over her, balancing carefully on his forearms. It's a testament to how far they've come that the prosthetic hand came off hours ago, when everyone else left. It barely fazes him now, her touch on his scarred arm.

"I tried telling Mary Margaret we simply did not require so many of them, but she's very insistent. And pregnant. David tells me you ought to just let pregnant women have their way. Safer." He's very solemn as he says it, rolling to his side and laying his palm against her flat stomach. "I feel it was a warning."

Emma lays her hand on top of his, squeezing his fingers lightly. "I promise to try not to be too much of a crazy person when it happens for us."

"I shall hold you to it." He bends to kiss her, tasting of champagne. She can smell the scent of the fire on his skin, the sweat of the day and that other scent, that one that's just _Killian_.

The sleepiness fades as their clothes come off, but they're not hurrying it, not tonight. Emma savors the feel of his skin on hers, the slide of their bodies and the way the candlelight catches his eyes, looking up at her in wonder as she rocks her hips into his.

"You are the loveliest thing I have ever seen," he tells her, the words punctuated with a gasp as she rolls her hips, her hands light on his chest to keep her balance. He reaches for her hair, a mass of spun gold tumbling over her shoulders, but it's not enough to run his fingers through it.

He sits up suddenly, and it's Emma's turn to gasp as the angle changes, but it's a good gasp as she holds onto his shoulders for leverage and he pulls them closer together, one arm around her waist while his palm settles between her shoulder blades. His kiss is greedy, and it goes on and on, Emma's body rising and falling on his in a rhythm that quickly becomes erratic.

Her head falls back as her release hits her, Killian's lips at her throat as she rides it out, still clinging to him as he follows her over.

She doesn't move right away, her arms looped almost lazily around his neck, her forehead on his shoulder. "That was an excellent christening of our new home, Swan." His voice is a low rumble, tired and sated and _happy_.

"Our bedroom, at least." There's a flicker of pleasant surprise on his face when she looks at him, finally easing herself back so he's no longer inside her. But she doesn't move right away, content in his lap, running her fingers through his damp hair.

"Shall we make a list?"

"Mmmm…" is the only answer he gets out of her, her lips capturing his and swallowing the cheeky response she knows he's dying to say.

Emma falls asleep that night to the sound of the wind and Killian's heartbeat, her dreams filled with the crash of the surf and the tinkle of children's laughter.

* * *

><p>An early update for everyone on this (almost warm) Sunday. One more chapter to go!<p> 


	27. Chapter 27

"How's the house?" Ruby asks as Emma slides into the passenger seat, aforementioned house glowing invitingly.

"Perfect." Emma grins, her smile infectious and radiating happiness. "He's perfect, Ruby."

"Oh, the house is a boy now?"

Emma's glare is far from convincing. "I can go back inside, you know. Killian will be home in a few hours and _he'll_ be happy to see me."

"Okay, okay. No need to get all upset, Blondie." Ruby puts the car into gear, grinning back at her friend. "It took us forever to figure out a night for this. We're _going_."

"Does it make me boring that there's a part of me that rather wait at home for him?"

"Nah." Ruby pats her knee sympathetically. "Victor is pouting about this."

They share a grin, Emma settling back into the seat and tugging her skirt into place. It's been a long time since they've had a girl's night, and Ruby's right – between their jobs and the house, it's been impossible to find a night to hang out. So this night out in Portland is long overdue.

"Killian seemed the most sad he wasn't going to see me all dressed up," Emma says wryly. She's a little sad, too, if she's being honest. She looks _fantastic_ in a short red dress, hair perfectly curled and a pair of heels that have lived in the back of the closet for far too long. "Do you think maybe we should stop by the bar?"

"If we stop by the bar, we will never make it to Portland. And you two will be having sex in the back of my bar. You know who has sex in the back of my bar? Me. Not you. Not Killian. You guys have sex in your house."

Emma flushes to almost the same color as her dress, staring out the window. They'd gotten carried away last weekend when she had stopped by, and Ruby had walked in on them, Emma's skirt around her waist Killian's pants undone. The look on her face at the time was bad enough, but Ruby continuing to tease her about it is the real revenge.

"All right, all right. No bar."

"Well, just not my bar."

They share a laugh, the highway signs coming into focus as they head south. Emma sings along to the radio – badly – looking forward to the night out. Her dates with Killian have been wonderful, but a night out dancing isn't exactly his cup of tea. That's okay with her – it's not something she needs to do all the time.

And it's sort of been her and Ruby's thing for a long time, anyway.

It's their pick me up – get all dressed up, go find a club with overpriced drinks, and spend a night dancing together, ignoring all attention of the male variety. Emma isn't exactly in a place where she needs a pick me up – and Ruby says she's not either – but a night of fun can't hurt.

But it _is_ different now. Emma snaps a picture of them in the car together before they go inside, sending it to Killian with a smirk to herself. He's been harassing her since he got to work for a picture. This one is a tease and she knows it – the neckline of her dress is out of the frame, but the swatch of fabric that shows on her shoulder is enough to give away its color.

Killian may have been teasing her about the paint colors, but she knows he likes red.

Her phone buzzes in her hand before they even make it to the door. _If you get home before me, you must leave the dress on until I can take it off you._ She shows Ruby with a laugh, and her friend rolls her eyes.

"I don't want to know, Em."

"Liar." Emma loops her arm through Ruby's, shivering in the cool night as they make their way to the entrance.

"He is a lot easier to work with these days. He sings to himself, you know, when he thinks no one is listening."

"He does it at home, too. He cooks and he folds laundry and he sings to himself." Emma shakes her head at herself, the music of the club washing over them. "Let's not stay late, okay?"

Ruby's lip curls into a small smile, the same smile that she wore the night David carried Emma out of the bar while Killian asked after her. "Sure thing, Blondie."

They order drinks, Emma with her tequila, Ruby with her whisky, and they dance and dance and dance. Killian makes her laugh plenty, but it feels good to laugh with Ruby, to twirl around the dance floor and revel in it.

She also drinks a little more than she meant to.

"Shit, are you drunk?" Ruby catches her mid-spin, her hands on her shoulders. Emma just giggles, grinning.

"Yep." She's got a smudge of mascara under one of her eyes, and her hair, once beautifully curled, is a tangled mess.

"Shit."

"What's wrong? I'm not driving." Emma pulls out of Ruby's grasp, tugging her friend further into the sea of bodies moving to the music.

Ruby continues to curse to herself, but Emma ignores her. She's probably worried Emma's going to throw up in her car, but it's not going to happen. Emma isn't that drunk – she's just happy and floating along on a cloud of giddiness and liquor and music.

They don't stay much longer – happy, drunk Emma turns quickly into sappy, missing Killian Emma. Ruby is still muttering under her breath as she helps Emma into the car, the heels much trickier to navigate with the influence of Mr. Jose Cuervo.

"Don't you fall asleep on me or throw up," Ruby threatens her from the driver's side as they make their way home through the dark streets and darker night.

"I'm tired," Emma whines, kicking off her heels and curling her legs up into the seat. Ruby only sighs.

"He's going to kill me."

"Killian doesn't care if I'm drunk. He thinks I'm cute." Emma looks especially pleased with herself as she says it, her lips curling into a soft smile. "He thinks I'm _cute._"

"So you've said."

"You're grumpy."

Ruby doesn't answer her, gripping the steering wheel tightly. This seemed like such a good idea at the time, but as she pulls into the driveway of Emma and Killian's home, she just feels guilty. This isn't _at all_ what she was supposed to do.

"Put your shoes back on. It's cold."

"Don't wanna." Emma slides out of the car, her heels hanging from her fingers. It's still too cold for her to be walking into the house barefoot, but Emma can't seem to feel the cold under the spell of tequila.

Ruby rushes to get out of the car, grabbing Emma's arm and guiding her up the stairs to the front door. She manages enough on her own, but Ruby is pretty sure if she falls, she's never going to forgive herself.

Killian swings the door open as Emma is digging in her bag for her keys, and she looks up with delighted surprise. "You're home!" She throws herself into his arms, pressing a sloppy kiss to his lips as Ruby stands behind her, shrugging her shoulders helplessly when Killian's eyes meet hers over Emma's head.

"Killian."

"Red."

"I tried to stop her."

"I suppose you did."

"Hey, you're all dressed up," Emma blurts out, finally noticing Killian's dress shirt and vest. She runs her fingertip down the edge of the vest, the smooth fabric slippery under her touch. "New look for the Rabbit Hole?"

"Not quite, love." He pulls her into the house, mouthing a word of thanks to Ruby as she turns to go.

"Oh, it's so pretty!" Emma drops her heels on the floor by the door with a clatter, the fire crackling along merrily. There are white candles all over the living room, flickering on the mantle and dancing in the windows in delicate glasses. She turns back to Killian, looping her arms around his neck and leaning back in his grasp as he steadies her. "Did you do this for me? You knew I was going out with Ruby."

He chuckles, and she has to wonder if she's imagining the nervousness in it. "Yes, love."

"But…why?"

He starts to speak, but then he stops, and she's never seen him look so lost for words. Instead, he smiles that nervous smile again, and all of a sudden, her alcohol-infused brain catches up.

"Oh…no…."

Emma backs away from him, one hand going to her hair where she grabs a fistful of it and groans. "I'm ruining it, aren't I?"

"Emma…"

"You planned this, with Ruby. You're going to…" She bites her lip, looking around the beautiful room with all the candles, spots the bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the table, two actual champagne flutes next to it. They don't own champagne flutes, so he must have bought them…for something special. "And I'm sort of drunk."

"You're beautiful." His thumb brushes against her cheek, lightly scrubbing at the smudge of makeup left there from her rubbing her eyes in the car. His hand falls to her shoulder, then slowly trails down her ribs until it settles on her hip. "This dress is lovely too."

"I'm a mess."

He shakes his head slowly, gently nudging her closer. Her hands fall to his chest, playing with the buttons on his vest. "Do you know when I find you the most beautiful, love?"

"When I'm on top of you?" Emma giggles as she says it, and he can taste the tequila when he kisses her. When he pulls back, she's staring at him with a saucy smirk, one eyebrow lifted in challenge.

"That is a lovely sight, to be sure." He runs his hand down her back, a slow, soothing stroke. "And you've got these lovely dresses. But my favorite…" He's backing her into the living room as he talks, until they're standing right in front of the fire, its heat pleasant on her bare legs. "My favorite is when we've settled in front of this fire, in our home, and you haven't a care about how you look. My favorite is at three a.m. when you're half asleep but you wake me anyway, because you are simply insatiable."

Emma flushes at his words, the heat dripping from them nearly as strong as the fire. "That's two favorites," she protests lightly, focusing on trying to unbutton his shirt.

"I have many favorites, love."

"You shouldn't ask. I've spoiled it with the tequila."

"You haven't spoiled a thing."

"But the candles and the fire and…you got champagne flutes." She's whining, and she knows it, but she just feels so awful. "I'm sorry."

"No more apologizing. I fell in love with you when you were halfway through a bottle of tequila, remember? You were much more belligerent that night. Tonight…tonight you're sort of adorable."

"I'm not…that was so long ago…you didn't know me at all."

"I loved you anyway." He takes a deep breath, pushes her hair back from her face, tucks it behind her ear. "If I ask, you're not going to walk away, are you?"

"That's not nice," she protests, fisting the shirt she's managed to wrangle one button free from. She sighs, looking up into his eyes and growing serious. "I'll never walk away from you." It's a fierce whisper, one of her hands trailing up his chest, her fingers caressing his jaw.

"And you trust me, love? You believe me when I say I will _never_ walk away from you again?"

She nods, her eyes beginning to fill with tears, because the alcohol is making her emotional, but also because this is it. He's going to ask her this question, this all-important question, and she can't wait another second, in spite of her messy hair and tipsy state.

"Ask me," she whispers, her fingers tightening on his shirt, bright green eyes locked on his. "_Ask_ me."

His hand leaves her waist, sliding into his pocket, and she can see how nervous he is. She kisses him impulsively, a deep, passionate kiss that has her pressing every inch of her body to his. She's breathing heavily when she finally pulls away, her lack of shoes making her short enough to press her forehead to his shoulder. "_Ask_."

He chuckles, a quiet, low rumble in his chest. "You've got to let go of my shirt, love."

She lets go reluctantly, taking a step back as he sinks down to one knee, her heart hammering in her chest. The firelight catches on the sparkling stones as he unfurls his fingers, displaying a delicate band of white gold. "Emma Swan, my heart has belonged to you from the moment we met. I love you, and I love our home, and I wish for this to last forever. Will you marry me?"

"Yes." The word is hard to get out, the tears finally breaking free and pouring down her cheeks. Her hand is shaking as he slides the ring onto her finger, still on his knee until Emma tugs on his hand, pulls him up and kisses him with everything she's got.

They make it no further than the couch, Emma's fingers growing less clumsy with the buttons. As they move together, the firelight catches on the ring, making it sparkle and shimmer like fireworks on her hand, but it's hard to keep her attention on any one thing for too long, Killian's lips and tongue and fingers dancing across her body.

By the time they've migrated to the floor in front of the fire, wrapped up in blankets from the couch, most of the candles have guttered out. Only the tall pillars on the mantle remain, the fire burning low in the hearth. Emma is mostly sober, a slight buzz leftover from the champagne they opened in between making love on the couch, but the giddiness of their engagement, the perfectness of the man she's half sprawled across, that's not going anywhere soon.

"I picked the ring myself," he says softly, catching her admiring it in the firelight. "I wanted you to know, that even with Ruby's help tonight, I did that part on my own."

She smiles, a sleepy, satisfied smile, stretching up his body to kiss him while one of her hands slides into his messy hair, thoroughly mussed from her attentions. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

"I am, aren't I?"

"Mmmm." She kisses his chest, the soft hair tickling her cheek.

"Shall we go upstairs?"

"So you can have your wicked way with me?"

"So I can kiss my future wife in our bed," he replies, emotional and serious and eyes filled with love. He grabs her hand, kisses her knuckles just above the ring.

She smiles, slowly rising and blowing out the candles while he banks the fire for the night. She doesn't expect it when he lifts her easily into his arms, heading for the stairs to their bedroom.

"I'm not a bride yet, you know," she teases as they enter the bedroom, Killian carefully maneuvering her over the threshold before setting her down on the bed.

"Practice," he murmurs, the word half lost in the kisses he's already trailing across her stomach, his hand on her thigh. Emma's eyes slide closed, her breath catching as his tongue dips lower.

This is her life, now. A man who loves her, a _good_ man, and a beautiful house, and soon, a husband. Friends and family who care for her, who help her, who make her feel cherished.

It's a place where the dreams win over the nightmares, where the firelight chases away the shadows, and where she falls asleep easily, wrapped in Killian's arms and promise she believes in.

* * *

><p>Well, we've reached the end of this particular tale. It was tough to finish this one. I love these two, and this might be my favorite version of them I've written yet. It's been so lovely to have you all along for the ride, for the kind things you've said and your support. I hope it's a satisfying ending.<p>

I haven't 100% settled on the next project, but right now, something with pirate Killian is winning. He's fun.

Happy last Sunday of the hiatus!


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